


Using Protection

by RedTeamShark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Archery, Child Abuse, Crushes, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Gun Violence, Hospitals, Karaoke, M/M, Massage, Minor Character Deaths, Nonsexual Nudity, Parental Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Witness Protection, fake identity, farmers markets, pet injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26625448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: Clint Barton had two goals while stuck in the middle of nowhere, living with his two protective agents and trying to adjust to being Cory Brandt:1) Don't die of boredom2) Don't get murdered.Scratch that, he had three goals.3) Make the strictly-business Agent James Barnes smile.Well, two out of three wasn't bad.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 60
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squadrickchestopher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/gifts).



> Biiiiiig shoutout to squadrickchestopher for getting me shipping winterhawk! <3 'tis I, the winterhawk anon, who was really only anon because I don't remember my tumblr login (okay, and because I'm sort of a shy bean).
> 
> This story was not meant to be a freaking novella, but sometimes that's just how the words happen.

He was a simple man, with simple needs. He liked his local coffee shop, he liked his local pizza joint, he liked the nearby park where he could walk his dog. Hell, if the right person was asking, Clint Barton even liked his _job_ , a rare feat these days. Working IT support wasn’t glamorous, but he set his own hours and could take breaks pretty much whenever he wanted. He also got to listen to confused old ladies prattle on about how their grandchildren had given them such a nice computer (usually a desktop, two or three system updates past due) that had suddenly quit working when they’d tried to use one of the many amazing features (he’d run the gamut from the legendary ‘cup holder’ CD tray to a woman in her 90s who managed to delete her entire registry while trying to open a game of free cell). 

And now, thanks to his field of work and his love of late nights, he got to ride in the back of an unmarked black sedan with tinted windows made of bulletproof glass, while Agent Smilie and Agent Stuffy sat up front and gave him a case of sudden onset suit kink.

At least Lucky was along for the ride.

It was time to say goodbye to his local coffee shop (Wanda the afternoon cashier used to sneak an extra espresso shot into his coffee at no charge), his local pizza joint (Pietro the Saturday driver charged him the distance delivery fee even though he was a block away), and the nearby park where he and Lucky would go for walks (he didn’t have any personal connections at the park, but Lucky probably was losing a lot of dog friends--there was a sad thought). And of course his job that had gotten him into this whole mess.

Hell, he wasn’t even technically Clint Barton anymore. Witness protection had assigned him a new identity and effectively burned the old one. He was supposed to be Cory Brandt, now. He was supposed to be from Chicago, supposed to be a writer, and supposed to try to learn to live in the suburbs. 

Lucky sighed, his head falling heavy onto Clint’s lap, and he pet the dog gently. “I know, boy, I know…”

“Something wrong?” Agent Smilie was driving, his blue eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before focusing on the road again.

“I think Lucky’s gonna need a bathroom break soon.”

Agent Stuffy let out a long-suffering sigh, the sixth of the journey by Clint’s count. “We _just_ stopped for gas, he couldn’t go then?”

“I dunno if you’ve ever been around a dog before, but they don’t really acknowledge human schedules.” Clint rolled his eyes, scritching gently behind Lucky’s ears.

Agent Smilie shot him a quick grin in the mirror. “There’s a rest stop in about twenty miles, we should be there in fifteen minutes or so.”

“Closer to twenty, with your driving,” Agent Stuffy murmured, before going back to his laptop.

Clint leaned forward as much as the dog on his lap would allow, looking at the laptop. Old habits, even if he wasn't technically in that field anymore. He sat back with a snort. “Should have known that government issue would be _that_. Let me guess, it has trouble staying connected to the wifi when it’s set on a desk.”

Agent Stuffy looked over his shoulder with a frown. “What do you know about my laptop?”

“Dude, I worked tech support. That’s why I’m on this road trip that, by the way, isn’t even stopping at the world’s largest ball of twine, so therefore is no fun.” He pointed to the laptop. “The wifi receptor is upside down in the case. It’s actually a pretty easy fix if you know what you’re looking for. Granted, most of the people that were calling tech support weren’t going to be able to be talked through that fix…”

Agent Stuffy looked at him for another minute, before turning back around and very purposely resuming his typing.

The two men were really Agent Steve Rogers and Agent James Barnes, but Clint had almost immediately given them their nicknames--Smilie and Stuffy, respectively--in his head. He’d also given himself the goal of making Agent Barnes display a positive emotion. Some entertainment while he waited for things to move forward in court. A process that could take years, he’d been informed.

Apparently _Law and Order_ wasn’t very representative of reality. Who knew.

They got out at the rest stop, walking around and stretching their legs. Clint clipped a leash onto Lucky and followed him into the small wooded area, letting the dog guide him to the perfect tree to pee on. He fought down a yawn as the mid-morning sun beat overhead and his dog circled the same patch of grass eight times. They’d gotten started early, had miles and miles to go, and he was far too keyed up to sleep. Had been for a few days now, really, only catching quick naps when his body insisted on sleep more than paranoia.

Clint nearly leapt out of his skin as a hand touched his shoulder, scrambling for the panic button in his pocket that would summon the two agents. He whipped around, eyes wild, taking in Agent Barnes with his hands raised non threateningly.

“Just me, Mr. Brandt.”

“Sneak up on a guy being threatened by the mob, why don’t ya?” Clint groaned, reaching up to rub his eyes.

“I did call your name.”

“You did--sorry, I’m still… getting used to it.” He _had_ heard someone calling for _Cory Brandt_ , but he’d tuned it out, filed it away as some other group on a road trip. Probably _actually_ visiting the world’s largest ball of twine.

“Well… If your dog is finished with his business, we’re going to get on the road again. There’s currently no one else at the stop, so it’s an ideal time to leave.”

Clint looked over to Lucky, sniffing the freshly dampened ground. “For at least the next little while,” he agreed, whistling for the dog and grinning as he bounded over. “He’s gonna hate me for this, but we should probably put him in the C-R-A-T-E in the back so that he’ll sleep.”

Agent Barnes frowned. “Why did you spell out crate? Dogs don’t…” His words were drowned out as Lucky began to whine, the sound getting louder. Abruptly, the dog sat down, forcing Clint to stop walking if he didn’t want to yank on the leash.

“Ugh, thanks. Dogs can totally understand certain words, and Lucky _hates_ his crate. At least, he does until he’s inside it.” Clint turned, kneeling down next to the dog and petting his head gently, beginning to coo softly to him. “Come on, good boy, you’re okay. It’s just for nap time, I promise.”

“Mr. Brandt, we really don’t have time for this--”

He shot Agent Barnes a look, turning back to Lucky. “Oh, I _know_ , baby, he’s a big meanie who made you upset.” His voice switched from the downward pitch of commiseration to something higher, excitement coloring his words. “I know, do you want a treat? Huh? Does my good boy want a treat?” Clint dropped the leash, standing up and jogging a few paces back towards the car. “Come on, Lucky, who wants a treat?”

Agent Barnes was looking at him like he was a crazy person (which, fair), but Lucky was fully attentive, excited, bounding after Clint. They reached the SUV and he opened the back, grabbing the box of treats out. Lucky stopped abruptly in front of him, sitting up straight with his eyes locked on the box.

“Good boy. Stay… stay…” Clint shook out a handful, carefully balancing one on Lucky’s nose. In his peripheral, he saw Agent Rogers come around the corner of the SUV and nodded briefly to the man. “Geddit, Lucky!” Clint commanded, the dog’s jaws snapping as the treat vanished down his throat. “Good boy!”

“Damn…” Agent Rogers let out a low whistle, grinning and leaning on the side of the car. “That _is_ a good boy.”

“Open the gate for me, I’m gonna lure him in with the same trick that’d totally work on me.” Agent Rogers opened up the hatch on Lucky’s crate as Clint took a few steps back. “Okay, Lucky, time to impress the feds. Up.” The dog raised up, balancing briefly on his hind legs. “Good boy! Down.” He dropped to lie flat on the pavement. “ _Good_ boy! Over, Lucky, roll over!” The dog rolled over, first one way and then the other. Clint tossed him a treat after each performance, before holding up the final treat. “Ready, Lucky? Chase!” He threw the treat, curving it slightly so it went into the crate. Lucky leapt up and after it, diving into the crate and, miracle of miracles, Agent Rogers understood and closed the gate on it. Clint stepped up, pressing his fingers between the metal hatching that made up the door of the crate. Inside, Lucky offered him a look of pure betrayal and a whine, before coming over and licking his fingers. “Just until the next rest stop. You need a nap.”

“We need to go. _Now_.” Agent Barnes stepped up, grabbing the raised back door and lowering it, forcing Clint to step back. “Into the car, Mr. Brandt.”

The smile had dropped off Agent Rogers’ face, his eyes on the far side of the rest area as he stepped back and opened the door for Clint. “You get a plate, Barnes?”

“Partial. New York, Adam-something-Frank, 2-3-7 and the last digit was scratched off.” Agent Barnes walked around the SUV, getting into the passenger seat. Clint climbed into his own seat, buckling his seatbelt and looking between them.

“Anyone wanna explain why a car at a rest stop has you both so up in arms?”

“Late model American made sedan, black or dark blue, tinted windows. Unknown occupants who did not exit the vehicle as soon as it was parked. Difficult to discern license plate.” Agent Barnes turned around as they drove away, looking past Clint out the back window. “Those, Mr. Brandt, are all the traits of a follow car.”

Ice shot through Clint’s veins at the reminder that this _really_ wasn’t some carefree road trip or relocation. He looked over his shoulder, squinting at the car as they got on the ramp back to the highway.

“It’s probably a coincidence,” Agent Rogers offered, though he wasn’t smiling and he’d certainly put a little more force onto the SUV’s gas pedal.

Clint forced some cheer into his voice. “Man… just when I thought it couldn’t get worse… next you’re gonna tell me I should be afraid of minivans.”

It was supposed to be a joke, something to lighten the mood as they merged back into traffic and got up to speed, as the car stayed back at the rest stop, but even Agent Rogers didn’t crack a smile. The tension in the car didn’t ease for at least half an hour, by which time they’d covered enough miles that the agents seemed to reach a silent agreement things were fine. Agent Barnes stopped looking backwards and went back to his laptop, and Agent Rogers shot him a grin in the rearview mirror before beginning the deliberate process of flipping through radio stations.

Clint sat back and closed his eyes, trying to relax enough to take a nap. Considering he’d almost fallen asleep standing up in the woods, it shouldn’t have been that hard. Every time he drifted off, though, he’d see the flash of a gunshot and jolt awake again.

It was going to be a long ass road trip.

* * *

Oh, this was bad. This was very, _very_ bad. Clint looked around, trying to force his heart to beat at a normal pace in his chest, rather than racing in his throat. He was still standing by the SUV while Agent Rogers and Agent Barnes walked the perimeter, and beside him, Lucky began to whine softly, nudging into his slack hand.

“They said suburbs,” Clint whispered, crouching down and wrapping his arms around the dog, pressing his face into soft yellow fur. “Suburbs are gated communities and HOAs and _people_ around to hear when--”

“Something wrong, Mr. Brandt?” Agent Barnes’ voice jolted him from his own head and Clint looked up, shaking his head quickly.

“No, it--it’s fine. Way quieter than the city, I bet. I guess I was just picturing…” He looked past the car, took in the farmhouse and the barn, the open, dusty field between them. “Civilization?”

“This location is secure and private, the barn is an excellent base of operations for our more technical monitoring, and the openness of the fields provide sightlines to anyone trying to intrude. Agent Rogers and I will finish setting up security protocols outside this evening, and work on interior ones tonight. For now, you’re welcome to adjust to the house.” Agent Barnes shifted, before passing him a cell phone. “If you require our help, our numbers are pre-programmed into here. One for Agent Rogers, two for myself. Press and hold to dial. And if something goes wrong, you have your panic alarm. That will summon both of us.”

Clint took the phone, looking at it quickly before shoving it in his pocket. “Thanks. I… yeah, I guess I’ll go… check out the house. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“We won’t be far. Stay safe, sir.” With a short nod, Agent Barnes walked off.

Clint looked back at the house, taking a deep breath before walking towards it. It was just a house. Just a rambling old farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t falling apart or anything like that--hell, there were flowers in window boxes that looked fresh and new. He could live there. The place probably wasn’t even haunted. Then again, ghosts would at least make things interesting.

“You’re hiding from the mob, your life is interesting enough,” Clint muttered as he mounted the front steps. He crossed the porch, looking to either side, quietly admiring the decor. _Someone_ in the government had a real eye for staging a house. Lots of hanging plants and flowers, a porch swing with fluffed up pillows on it… Considering he’d expected an anonymous hotel room first and then a cookie cutter suburban home, this was a nice surprise.

Inside was even nicer, a flowing open concept layout that led his eye from one area to the next with ease. Someone had gone all out on the farmhouse chic, white walls and light wood floors accented with shades of blue. The overstuffed sofa was creamy white, a deep navy throw blanket tossed over the back of it, two matching navy chairs near the fireplace. It led him to the dining area, a square wood table with a white tablecloth on it, askew to hang down over each side. There was a huge white and blue vase in the middle, a bunch of fresh flowers in it. Past the dining area was the kitchen, white marble countertops and a backsplash with pale blue subway tile. The island was also tiled in pale blue, making it stand out against the white cabinets.

He watched a lot of HGTV. This place could have been designed by Chip and Joanna Gaines. 

Splitting the house down the middle were stairs, which Clint glanced up before turning to the other side of the house. There was a seating area across from the living room, this one offering a little privacy with french doors that were currently propped open. Inside was set up to be an office, with a desk and computer in one corner, bookshelves and cozy chairs offering a library feeling. It was in the same white and light wood as the rest of the house, and it continued the deep navy accents of the living room. There was a door here that Clint opened, finding a small but usable bathroom complete with a tub, and another door that led to a combination laundry room and mudroom. There was another set of french doors in there, leading to the backyard, and a side door that opened to the kitchen. Clint circled around to the stairs and climbed them.

Two of the three doors led to almost identical small bedrooms, both on the front of the house. Directly across from the top of the stairs the door opened to a larger bedroom, with its own attached full bathroom.

It was way more space than he ever thought he’d use, and that wasn’t even taking into account the barn. Clint dropped onto the bed in the large bedroom--still farmhouse chic, still decorated with light wood, white, and blue accents--and patted the comforter next to him for Lucky. The dog jumped up eagerly, rolling around and ruining the pristine sheets with his shedding yellow fur. Clint rolled over, pressing his face to Lucky’s neck and breathing in the familiar scent of his dog. “Gotta admit, boy, I’d definitely rather be in my one bedroom apartment. At least that place felt like home.”

There wasn’t much to do, especially not on his own. He hadn’t been told that he _couldn’t_ wander around the property, but Clint had a sinking feeling that meandering around outside would set his two bodyguards on high alert. Not to mention that knowing his luck, he’d go out into a corn field and get lost.

“Corn’s in Iowa, not Illinois…” Clint rolled out of bed, leaving Lucky to take over the entire thing as he went back downstairs. He got himself a glass of water and headed for the office, taking a seat at the computer. Might as well see what he could do with the machine.

_Late night shift was always when the weirdos called. Clint had seen more than a few middle-aged women’s tits, because apparently PTA moms got off on flashing unsuspecting people just as much as twenty year old boys. They just preferred to call tech support with webcam problems instead of getting on Chatroulette like a normal horny person._

_“IT Support, thank you for holding. My name is Clint, what’s your problem this evening?” His computer said the call was surprisingly local, from down in Queens. The automated system had flagged webcam issues and the caller profile showed a woman in her 40s, so Clint had to guess that he was about to see another set of tits._

_“Hi, Clint, I’m Mary. This is going to sound silly, but my webcam is upside down and I can’t get it to right itself.”_

_Yup, he was going to see tits. Clint leaned back in his chair for a moment, before tapping a few buttons on his keyboard. “I’ll admit, that is sort of a new one. Is the webcam built in to your computer, or is it a seperate piece of hardware?”_

_“It’s built in. My husband and I got our son a new laptop to do his school work, but he’s insistent that he wants to keep his old desktop. I thought kids today always wanted the newest, but I won’t look a four hundred dollar gift horse in the mouth if he wants me to use it.”_

_Clint laughed politely, pulling up the specs on the laptop that the automated system had generated. “Okay, it looks like it’s a setting issue, not a hardware one, so this should be an easy fix. Would you like me to talk you through it over the phone, or remote in and perform the fix myself?”_

_“Oh, you can probably--hm? Ah, someone’s at the door. Go ahead and remote in. I can always call back if it happens again, right?”_

_“Absolutely, ma’am. I’m remotely accessing your computer now, so you may see changes to your monitor. I’ll let you know when I leave.”_

_To his surprise, he didn’t see tits when he remotely accessed the computer and turned on the webcam. Clint saw the back of a woman, walking away from the computer with a phone to her ear. He saw a small living room, not that different from his own. Just as she’d said, all of it was currently upside down._

_Over the phone, he could hear someone knocking at the door, getting louder as the woman on the monitor got closer to it. “I’m coming, I’m coming, calm down…” She said, opening the door. “Can I he--”_

_Clint flipped the camera to the right side up just as the two men burst into the room. His heart hammered in his chest, his fingers moving without a thought, rerouting a copy of the automatic screen recording to his external hard drive. The company insisted on screen recording all remote access, in case their techs did anything fishy, but they used cloud services to upload it._

_In his ears and on his screen, the woman screamed and dropped the phone. One of the men grabbed her, put a hand over her mouth, and shoved her further into the room. The other shut the door, and Clint swallowed. He could see both of the men in perfect, 1080p clarity. Four hundred dollar laptops didn’t skimp on the built-ins._

_It was harder to hear them, but he could catch enough. “Where is he?” The one that had grabbed Mary--who had no intention of showing him her tits, a little hysterical part of his brain noted--snapped. Her response was garbled, muffled by his hand and mixed with sobbing._

_The one by the door spoke, walking forward, and the one holding Mary grinned. “You’re right. We don’t.”_

_At first Clint thought that they’d just--let her go. He saw the flash of something between their torsos, heard a muffled coughing sound, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Mary took a step back, holding her stomach, then fell to the floor. Bright blood pooled around her and--_

“...Brandt? Mr Brandt?” Agent Rogers’ voice carried through the house and Clint jumped, looking over his shoulder as if caught. He swallowed, tried to calm the pulse of adrenaline, looked back at the computer. He’d been lost in memory so long, the screensaver had come on.

“In here!” He called, standing up and stepping away without bothering to wake up the monitor. “I was just…”

Agent Rogers approached him with a smile, though a glance past him knocked that off his face. “Not that you’re forbidden from using the computer, of course, but Agent Barnes and I haven’t had a chance to clear it yet. It _should_ be clean, no one knows about this place except the people setting up your new identity, but we prefer to be safe instead of sorry.”

“Oh, I… okay. I’ll wait until you clear it, I guess.” Had he even done anything but boot it up? Clint didn’t think so. “So, what’s up?”

“Well, we’ve finished setting up security for the perimeter. Agent Barnes is going to Chicago for the night to trade in the SUV for something that won’t stand out as much here.” Agent Rogers smiled and shook his head. “Which means he’ll be in a bad mood tomorrow when he gets back. He hates driving. For the night, it’s you and me.”

“And Lucky.”

“And Lucky,” Agent Rogers agreed, looking around. “Where is he, anyways?”

“Claiming his room upstairs. So, do you need to set up security in the house?” Clint moved towards the door, shooting another almost-guilty look at the computer. Come to think of it, he probably _hadn’t_ done anything but boot it up… Staring at screens had lost a lot of appeal over the last few months.

“Yeah, there’s passcodes to program and then I’ll have to check that everything is working. Unfortunately, we didn’t plan to have a dog at this place, so there’s no security protocols set up for Lucky to get in and out.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, before pulling out his phone. “I’ll text Barnes about it. We can get one of those chipped dog doors, and just implant the chip into the dog--if you’ll consent, of course.”

“Why not just have him wear the chipped collar?” Clint asked, looking up to the ceiling as a _thump_ sounded overhead. Apparently Lucky knew when he was being talked about.

Agent Rogers shifted, looking away from him. “If he were to be found while outside, they could take the collar and access the house. That’s a lot more difficult with a microchip.” A shudder ran through Clint, twisting up his spine. The agent didn’t need to say it for him to get it. They wouldn’t just take the collar and leave Lucky to roam free. “But don’t worry, Mr. Brandt,” Agent Rogers rushed on, “no one tracked us here. And we’d know they were coming well before they got close enough to the house to be a threat.”

“Good… good to know. Um, I’m gonna put together some dinner, do you want anything?”

The sunny smile from the car was back, and Clint felt himself relaxing just slightly with its presence. Agent Rogers seemed fine with wearing his emotions out in public, it made him easy to read. “Whatever you throw together sounds good. I hope Barnes remembers the full list of dog supplies I gave him. He didn’t want to write it down.”

“We can always make a trip into town for Lucky. We don’t have to go all the way to Chicago. And… Actually, I can just move my Chewy order to this address and have it taken care of--oh.” Clint shook his head, groaning. “That’s right, my Chewy account doesn’t exist anymore because I’m not Clint Barton anymore. Dammit, I had rewards points on there still.”

“Sorry, Mr. Brandt. We probably shouldn’t use any sort of automatic shipments, either. Having a routine makes you easy to track.”

At least he’d never been that big on routines. One small point in his favor. “Human dinner first, dog dinner second,” Clint declared, exiting the office and moving towards the kitchen. “I’ll call you when it’s ready, Agent Rogers.”

“Steve.” Clint spun on his heel, looking at the man still in the office. He was looking down, his whole face pink. “It’s against protocol, technically, but we’re all going to be living together pretty long term, so… you can call me Steve, Mr. Brandt.”

“Well, then you can call me Clint--I mean Cory. Dammit. Maybe I’ll get used to it faster without the ‘mister’ in front. Nice to become roommates with ya, Steve.” Clint grinned easily and Steve looked up long enough to return it. “So, should I call Agent Barnes by his first name from now on?”

The smile dropped off Steve’s face, replaced with a brief look of horror. “No, I don’t think he’d appreciate the informality. If we’re in public, maybe for the sake of a cover, but in private I’d keep calling him Agent Barnes.”

“Real rules man, huh?”

Steve shrugged, drifting towards the computer. “He has his reasons. Don’t go outdoors without telling me until I have the house security set up, okay?”

His reasons, huh? Clint filed that away to dig at later, giving a quick thumbs-up. “House arrest before dinner, you got it. I really hope they stocked this place with food.” Into the kitchen to learn his way around. There were so many _cupboards_ , especially compared to the corner of his apartment that had served as a cooking and eating area. Well, an ordering take-out and reheating leftovers area. None of that here, at least not on the first night.

There was cable, another improvement over his apartment. And after a little fiddling with the wifi and the bluray player, there was Youtube and all the cat videos he could stomach. Clint groaned as he flopped onto the couch, remote in hand. “My entire Google account got purged, didn’t it? Years of curated Youtube playlists, just… gone.”

“You’re helping a family find justice for what happened to them, Cory. I think a few Youtube recommendations are a fair price to pay. Besides, you shouldn’t put your whole identity online anyways. You worked tech, you know how easy it can be to track someone just from their email address.” Steve smiled, taking a seat in one of the chairs and setting his laptop on his knees. “Any ideas on what to set the house security code as? It needs to be six digits, no sequences of more than two. Barnes and I will be able to memorize it, so pick something--”

“0-4-2-6-1-9,” Clint answered immediately.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “April 26, 2019? That date means something to you?”

“Close but not quite. My weekly pay was four hundred twenty-six dollars and nineteen cents at my job. And it was tech _support_ , which means I only know how to fix other people’s stupid mistakes, not prevent my own.” Clint clicked on a random video, turning the volume down and getting comfortable on the couch.

He must have fallen asleep like that, or at least dozed off. Clint bolted upright as someone touched his arm, looking around and seeing nothing familiar. He whipped his head to the side, nearly cracking his forehead against Steve’s before the man could step back.

“Sorry. You were talking. You okay?”

His--dreams? memories?--were already breaking up into foggy fragments. Clint shrugged him off, sitting up and clapping gently for Lucky to come. He stroked the dog’s fur, nodding. He didn’t trust his voice, not just yet.

Steve slowly eased back into his chair, looking to the TV with a small frown. His gaze darted back to Clint and he sighed. “It’s okay, you know. To be a little messed up by what you saw. Anyone would be. It was traumatic and you keep having to relive it. Not to mention that what you witnessed completely uprooted your life.”

“M’fine,” Clint mumbled, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “Just--gonna go try to sleep in a bed, I guess.”

The frown was still on Steve’s face, the look like he wanted to say something else. Clint braced himself to flee from the attempt at comfort or understanding that was about to come. Finally, Steve nodded. “I’m going to do one last perimeter sweep, I should be upstairs in about half an hour. I’ll take the bedroom on the left, so come get me if you need anything and remember to keep your panic alarm close.”

“Yeah. Of course.” The constant reminder that he was in mortal danger was sure to help him sleep. Still, he forced a smile and a casual wave, climbing the stairs with Lucky close by. Eventually this place would become routine, he’d get used to the silence and the openness and all the little procedures meant to make sure a hitman wasn’t about to take him out.

Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise not to do this every chapter, but if you like my writing, have a look at [Mean Grease: The High School Musical](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176471). It's an incredibly Gen MCU fic about friendship, music, high school, and the early 2000s (because I'm old) and I worked hard on it for several months and am proud of it. That story updates on Wednesdays, in tribute to everyone's favorite Mean Girl, Karen Smith.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed chapter one here. Updates will be coming on Fridays. <3


	2. Chapter 2

Getting bored was inevitable. Clint had grown far too used to the hustle and bustle of the city, to the opportunities to _do_ things. Out here in the country, with nothing but miles of open fields, with the trip to town being twenty minutes each way--yeah, he got bored.

So, after checking his government-issued bank account, he went on a little Amazon shopping spree. Cory Brandt had plenty of money, more than Clint Barton usually managed to keep in his bank account, and, well.

He was bored.

It took an excruciating three days for everything to arrive, and Agent Barnes almost shot the mail carrier when they pulled up, but Clint was just excited to have his entertainment. He hung back while Steve signed for the packages, beaming as wide as a kid on Christmas.

“What the hell did you do?” Agent Barnes asked once the mail carrier was gone, standing between Clint and his long-awaited parcels of entertainment.

“Hey, it could be worse, I could have been internet shopping while drunk.” Clint ducked around him, grabbing the first box and picking it up. “Help me carry these out back, please?”

Barnes sighed, but after a moment, he hefted the largest of the packages and followed Clint around the house to the back yard. It took the two of them three trips to bring it all back, and as soon as it was set down, Clint held his hand out. “Knife?”

“Are you allowed near sharp objects? What did you even _order_?” Barnes produced his knife, handing it over carefully. He crossed his arms, apparently content to just watch Clint open his self-gifted presents.

“Entertainment.” He sliced through the boxes until he found a packing list, passing it over. “Take a look.”

Clint got to work on unpacking while Barnes read off the list of supplies. Straw practice targets. Blunted arrows. Two training bows. Spray paint. He stopped reading, folding the paper and simply staring.

“What?” Clint rolled one of the practice targets down towards the barn, walking back and dusting his hands off on his jeans.

“I thought you worked in tech support.”

“I did. A guy has to have hobbies, though.” He winked. “Maybe it’s research for my book, Agent Barnes.”

Barnes passed him the packing list without making eye contact, clearing his throat. “I’m going to go do a perimeter sweep, make sure the mail carrier wasn’t followed. Call us if you need further help.” He walked away without another word, head down and steps quick.

Cute, Clint decided, before turning back to setting up his practice area. He stretched out his arms and back, cracking his spine and looking up to the sky overhead. High summer, everywhere that wasn’t cleared land was full of hay taller than him. He was as alone as he could get.

 _Thunk!_ The first arrow sank into the target off-center and Clint frowned, adjusting the bow. It was a cheap recurve, more useful for getting a feel for the sport than competitive shooting or hunting. The listing had said that it had a twenty pound draw, but as he flexed the string, Clint guessed it was closer to twenty-five. He took a few paces back and aimed again, drawing and firing. If he got a chance to go into town with Steve, maybe he’d see about visiting a sporting goods store and getting something fancier. Cory Brandt probably had a clean criminal record.

“Nah, the government probably made me a felon, just for their own entertainment.” He laughed to himself, shaking his head and switching bows. Still a recurve, but it had a little more heft to it. In dire straits, he could use this one for hunting small game like turkey as long as he could get close enough to be sure the arrow would pierce.

_Thunk!_

_The arrow sank into a tree and the pheasant near it took off with a squawk, others following its lead. Clint sighed, his back and shoulders aching, his neck screaming. His fingertips were numb and he was exhausted, but hunger had to win over any of that._

_He crossed the clearing and carefully pulled the arrow from the tree trunk, checking the length of it. No splintering, he’d be fine if he replaced the tip._

_Despite the aches and numb fingers and rumbling stomach, he was happy. Even in the depths of winter, being out in the woods was better than being at home. No one was yelling at him out here._

_He took a seat on a downed tree, working quickly to swap out the arrowhead so he could put his gloves back on. Pheasant were acceptable, but a turkey would be better. A deer would be amazing._

_“Keep dreamin’...” He muttered, puffing warm air into his cupped hands and quickly pulling his gloves back on. He tucked the arrow into his quiver, standing up and listening. The woods in winter were just as alive as they were in spring or summer. Sometimes it just took extra effort to find that life._

_Trees sighed overhead with the constant breeze, snow crunched under his boots, and his own breathing was loud in his ears. Clint closed his eyes, listened closer, and then began to move. He wasn’t far from the stream and there had been a recent thaw. There would be animals at the water._

_Still fifty yards from the stream he stopped, silently nocked an arrow and drew back his bow. His shoulder protested as he held form, his numb fingertips threatening to let the arrow slip before he was ready. The deer was large and he licked his lips, pictured a simmering pot of venison stew. Pictured bringing salty venison jerky out into the woods to snack on next winter._

_Clint shifted his posture and a twig cracked under his boot. The deer’s head jolted up from the stream where it had been drinking, right into his sights. Clint let the arrow go before he could think twice about it, taking the animal down quick and clean. He lowered his bow and breathed, before rushing over, checking that it was indeed dead._

_“Thank you for your sacrifice. It won’t be in vain.”_

_Hauling the animal back to the house took until dark, and he presented his kill silently. His father examined it, nodded once. “Clean kill, we’ll be able to get plenty of meat. This your first deer?”_

_Clint nodded, letting the grin he’d been wearing the whole walk back show again. “Yup!”_

_“Your brother was nine when he got his. How old’re you?”_

_The grin slipped off his face. “Eleven, sir.”_

_“Huh. Once a runt, always a runt, I guess. Go clean up for supper.”_

“...clean up for supper?”

The echoes startled him and the arrow went wide, missed the target completely and disappeared into the hay. Clint turned, blinking to clear his head until he could focus on Agent Barnes. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were going to clean up for supper. Or would you rather just kill canvas all night?”

Slowly, Clint came back to reality. His shoulders and back ached, there were calluses forming on his fingers, and he had more than a few nicks on his inner arm from stray fletching. Clint wiped sweat off his brow, almost surprised when his hand came away dusty. “I, uh, guess I better take a shower.”

Barnes frowned, looking down the makeshift archery range. The targets had dozens, if not hundreds, of holes in them, mostly concentrated around the center. “Are you okay out here, Mr. Brandt?”

“I used to hunt. In the winter. For food.” The words rushed out and Clint looked down, feeling his face heat up from more than just the sunburn he probably had. “Got my first deer when I was eleven. We had to use bows so that the rangers wouldn’t know we were doin’ it.” He cleared his throat, shrugging and putting down the bow. “Anyways. I need a shower. Must smell pretty ripe.” He hurried inside, fighting down the feeling that he was running away. He hadn’t thought about those long, cold, hungry winters in at least fifteen years. He wasn’t going to start now.

* * *

He wasn’t oblivious to the tension at dinner. Clint pushed food around his plate, his fork awkward in his bandaged fingers. He should have ordered finger guards. And a wrist guard, come to think of it. Steve had taken one look at him and insisted on doctoring him up after the shower, so now he sported a bright white bandage on the inside of his right forearm. An _itchy_ bright white bandage. That was coming off as soon as he had some privacy.

Steve set down his water glass with a sign. “Cory, we need to talk.”

“What’re you, my mom?” He shook his head, dropping his fork and all pretense of eating. “Is this about the stuff I ordered? Look, I’m sorry I didn’t give you guys a heads up--I didn’t know I was supposed to. But god dammit, I’m an adult. I can buy stupid stuff on Amazon if I want and I shouldn’t have to tell my government issued _babysitters_ that it’s coming--”

“It’s not about that, Mr. Brandt.” Barnes cut him off sharply, pushing back from the table with a squeak from his chair. “It’s about the men that you saw murder Mary Parker.”

“They slipped our surveillance team,” Steve said, and then he kept talking, but all Clint could hear was blood rushing in his ears.

_The phone had disconnected and he hadn’t even realized he was typing, was activating the laptop’s internal microphone. It went to his headset, not to the recording software._

_“Toss the place, make it look like a robbery,” the one with the gun ordered, beginning to do just that. The other one stepped over Mary’s body, pulling on a pair of black gloves._

_“We need to figure out where the kid is.”_

_“What do you think I’m working on, Jack?” He was tucking the gun back into his belt, pulling on gloves as well. “Check the bedrooms, I’ll toss the kitchen.”_

_The intermittent rattle of things being thrown around mingled with the sounds of glass breaking in the background. Much closer, he could hear Mary, still trying to draw breath._

_“Peter…” she rasped out from the floor, turning her head. “What do you want with my son?”_

_The man that had shot her grinned, stepping closer and leaning over her. “You know what we want.” He glanced up, made eye contact with the laptop and Clint’s heart almost stopped. He couldn’t be seen, but those dark eyes staring through his monitor--he felt like he could. “Is someone watching you, Mary? Spying on you?” He stepped closer, leaned into the laptop so his face nearly filled Clint’s screen. “I don’t know who you are, buddy, but when I find you, I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.” A hand covered the camera, the laptop closing and audio cutting off a moment later._

“Cory… _Cory_.” Steve snapped his fingers in front of his face and Clint came back, shaking hard. He realized he was gripping the edge of the table, tight enough that he’d popped two of the blisters on his fingers.

“Sorry, I… Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Look, Agent Barnes and I are going to keep you safe. We doubt they know where you are, there’s been nothing suspicious since we got here.”

Barnes nodded. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to be trained in some self-defense. You seem pretty confident with a bow, have you ever shot a gun before?”

“No. I wasn't allowed to take the hunting rifle out. Can’t reuse bullets like you can arrows.” Clint forced his fingers to relax, looking between the two agents. “You really think they’ll come here?”

Steve shook his head quickly, but his face was still serious. “I think an abundance of caution is better than a moment of regret. We’ll get you a handgun permit through the field office and teach you how to shoot it. Just like your cell phone and panic button, you should keep it close by at all times.” The smile finally came back, accompanied by a little laugh. “Just don’t accidentally shoot one of us. Or the mail carrier.”

“He breached perimeter, Rogers, he could have been a threat.” Barnes crossed his arms, looking away for a moment before turning back to Clint. “Hand to hand combat might also be useful. Agent Rogers teaches a class back in Brooklyn, he can give you a few pointers.”

Clint nodded, trying to take it all in. He exhaled slowly, standing up and forcing himself to look as casual and accepting as possible. “That all sounds like a perfectly sound plan that you’ve already decided to enact no matter what I say. Just like faking my death. Just like uprooting my entire life into this crappy little farm town. It’s good to know that if some assholes show up to murder me for real, I’ll have the means to shoot them. It ever occur to you that I _don’t_ want to be able to kill somebody? Or that I just wanted to have a normal life, with my dog and my crappy apartment and my simple routine? No? Didn’t think so.” He turned sharply away from the table, climbing the stairs two at a time.

Lucky was lounging on the bed and Clint went to the dog, curled up against him and pressed his face into the familiar, ticklish bulk of his fur. He’d thought that archery would entertain him, would help him with the stress of all of this, but all it had done was bring up bad memories and make him blow up on the two people who probably understood best just how much this sucked. They were stuck here with him, after all. Clint groaned, shaking his head against Lucky as the dog licked the side of his face.

“No, don’t make the guilt come crashing down. I wanna be angry for a little longer,” he whined, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. They were just trying to keep him safe, the logical part of his brain insisted. And safety for him might have to mean being willing to hurt someone else. Even if the thought made his stomach turn.

_“Once a runt, always a runt. Do it, don’t be a coward.”_

He shoved _that_ voice as far out of his head as it would go, wrapping his arms around Lucky and petting the dog gently. He was just tired from the strenuous day. Sore all through his arms and shoulders and back. He’d get a good night's sleep and things would be fine in the morning.

* * *

There was a downside to the extremely modern kitchen: it only had a keurig. Clint leaned most of his body weight on the counter, eyes half-open and locked on the slow drip that filled his coffee cup. Honestly, who made coffee one cup at a time? It was excruciating.

Finally it dripped its last and he picked up his cup, taking a drink and hissing, almost dropping it. He didn’t _like_ his coffee scalding hot, but he also didn’t have the patience to wait for it to be a reasonable temperature.

“Come on, baby, be good to me,” Clint mumbled, taking a seat at the island and resigning himself to wait a full fifteen seconds before trying again to imbibe much-needed caffeine.

“Did you say something?” Barnes was taking his turn at the keurig, pushing buttons and making something much fancier and more time consuming than black coffee.

“Talkin’ to my coffee.” Clint took another drink, sighing and setting it down. Most of his taste buds were burned off, but coffee wasn’t about _taste_. It was about _feeling_.

“Let me know if it starts talking back…”

The kitchen was silent except for the sounds of the coffee machine working. Clint closed his eyes, cocking his head to one side. Steve wasn’t known for sleeping in, but he couldn’t hear the other man nearby. “You two switch patrol shifts or something?”

“Agent Rogers took the truck up to Chicago to get you a firearm. Your previous identity doesn’t have any felonies, right?”

“Oh, _absolutely_ not.” Clint tried for an innocent smile, the effect marred by the coffee mug at his mouth. 

“Right…” Barnes picked up his own cup, waiting a reasonable amount of time before taking a drink. “Well, there are workarounds for it if you do. Our job today is to set up the gun range. With more safety in mind than your archery course has.”

Clint raised an eyebrow, ready to defend his set up, but when he turned around to face Barnes, he froze.

Steve had abandoned his suit almost as soon as they got out here, opting instead for jeans, work boots, and flannels. Clint had kept his usual preference for loud t-shirts and sweatpants, though he was willing to put on jeans if he was going to be doing something more strenuous than sitting on the couch. Barnes had been the only one to remain in the stark black suit, which looked damn good on him but didn’t blend in very well with the farming crowd Clint assumed lived around them.

Except for today. Barnes had swapped the suit for a black tank top and cargo pants. Cargo pants hadn’t looked good on anyone since the late 90s, when Natalie Imbruglia had definitely been his first crush. But damn, they looked good on Barnes. Clint cleared his throat, realizing too late to make it casual that he was staring. “Right. And you need my help?”

“It’s something to do, isn’t it?”

“Just lemme put on some pants with a zipper, then.”

Oh, god, those arms. Steve bulked out of his suits and it was obvious he was built, but Barnes’ usual clothes hid the muscles that the tank top exposed. There were also a number of scars on his left arm, lines of pink against the pale flesh that had caught Clint’s eye.

“Stop it,” he whispered as he yanked on jeans and a clean t-shirt, scrubbing a hand through his hair to make the mess look somewhat purposeful. “He’s your bodyguard, stop treating him like eye candy.”

Now that the thoughts were in his head, though, they wouldn’t _leave_. He shuffled back downstairs, pulling on sneakers and joining Barnes out by the barn.

It was hot out and unbearably still, the dust they kicked up as they knocked down hay and built up a safety berm hanging in the air for minutes. They worked in near silence, aside from Barnes’ instructions and Clint’s occasional whistling. At some point Lucky came out to join them, pacing back and forth between the two before realizing that neither was going to stop to play and instead lying down as in the way as possible. Clint grinned and shrugged, as if to say _dogs, what can you do?_ but Barnes only set his jaw and kept working.

Mission “Make Agent Stuffy Show A Positive Emotion” was impossible.

They were both filthy by the time they called it a day, dust and grime sticking to their sweaty skin. Clint had abandoned his t-shirt and was sure that he was going to be up half the night with a sunburn. Barnes wasn’t looking much better, his shoulders and the back of his neck a bright, angry red.

“Guess we shoulda remembered the sunblock,” Clint offered, tossing his shirt over his shoulder. “I’ll aloe your back if you’ll aloe mine?”

Barnes looked him up and down, before nodding slowly. “Okay. We should shower, first.”

“Then we should eat, I’m starving. So get clean, get food, get aloe. You want the downstairs shower or the upstairs?” Downstairs had better water pressure, but upstairs stayed hotter longer. Clint was leaning towards the downstairs one, personally. He was still sore from his extended archery session the day before, water pounding onto his shoulders would feel amazing.

“I’ll take upstairs.” Barnes nodded once, leading the way back into the house, Lucky close at his heels. Clint picked up a few of the tools, a few paces back. He watched as Barnes got to the house, watched as Lucky ducked inside his dog door, and definitely watched as the man reached down, running his hand along the dog’s back as it went inside. A moment later he stood up straight, looking over his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Fine!” Clint called, grinning brightly and picking up the pace. He could point it out, but--well, even _he_ knew when to shut his damn mouth, sometimes.

The nice part about the downstairs shower was the water pressure. The unfortunate part was that all of his clean clothes were upstairs. Clint wrapped a towel around his hips and draped another over his shoulders, looking in the laundry room just in case. Not even a stray sock under the dryer to try to preserve his modesty. He could put his dirty, sweaty clothes back on and defeat the purpose of showering, or he could go upstairs to his dresser with the risk of flashing the entire house.

Options.

Gripping the towel at his hips tight, he climbed the stairs, head cocking as he listened. Barnes was still in the shower, from the sound of it. Clint headed into his room, crossing to the dresser on the back wall. The bathroom door was wide open, steam from the shower turning the room humid and soupy. Hopefully a breeze would kick up in the evening and he could open his windows and air it out.

He scrubbed the towel against his hair as he dug for clean clothes, pushing past his mound of sweatpants in an effort to find some shorts. He swore he rifled through the dresser three times without finding any, his focus locked on the task.

Locked on it enough that he didn’t feel his towel slip down, didn’t hear the shower shut off, and didn’t realize that he wasn’t alone in the room until, with a little shout of success, Clint looked up, right into the mirror on top of the dresser.

Barnes was behind him, stopped in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in his own towel and staring right at him. He was flushed, a combination of sunburn and a hot shower, but--that flush was growing, getting brighter on his face and tracking down his chest. Clint swallowed, watching in the reflection as a bead of water dripped off of Barnes’ hair and onto his shoulder, raced down the damp skin on his chest.

“Um,” Barnes said after a moment, sidestepping towards the door. “Sorry, I didn’t--didn’t hear you come up.” His eyes were locked on the ceiling suddenly, and he was about to trip over a basket of dirty laundry.

Clint turned to warn him, took a step and found his feet tangled in something, some heavy fabric. 

Oh.

Oh, that was his towel.

Which meant he was naked, which came second to the fact that he was about to fall and brain himself on the corner of the bed.

Things happened pretty fast.

Clint’s arms flailed for balance, his eyes going wide as his body continued to pitch forward. Barnes’ full attention shot to him, quick steps bringing him across the room. Rather than falling forward, Clint felt himself fall backwards, his back hitting the soft bed instead of his face hitting the hard floor.

A moment later, the solid weight of Agent Barnes landed on top of him, almost knocking the wind out of him.

They stayed still on the bed for a moment, catching their breath, before Clint let out a little laugh. “I’m beauty, I’m grace,” he muttered, dropping his head back and staring at the ceiling.

“Are you okay?” Barnes wasn’t moving, except his hands flexing minutely where they were wrapped around Clint’s upper arms.

“Only thing bruised is my pride.” He shook his head, gaze tracking down to the bare bit of space between them. “You know, usually when I end up naked underneath someone, there’s a bit more wooing involved.”

That got Barnes moving, a deep blush coming to his face. He pushed himself to stand up, hurriedly grabbing both of their towels from the floor. He dropped Clint’s onto his lap without looking, wrapping his own back around his hips. “That was--probably an overreaction on my part. Sorry.”

“You saved me having to explain an awkward black eye, so it’s fine.” Clint stood up as Barnes moved back, fixing the towel around his hips and going back to the dresser. “I’m gonna get dressed now. I promise not to accidentally smother myself with my t-shirt or something.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” Barnes took another step back, though he didn’t leave.

The silence between them was awkward, almost expectant. Finally, Clint grinned. “If you’re gonna stick around and watch, I should charge you for it. I’ll do a little dance, even.”

“Stick--oh, right. No.” Barnes’ back straightened, his eyes locking back on the ceiling. “I’ll leave you to it.” He walked out quickly, steps stiff.

Clint was still grinning as he went downstairs, finally clothed. He pulled out ingredients from the fridge and cupboards, putting together a quick, relatively easy dinner. His skin was already starting to feel tight and hot, and he was looking forward to getting some aloe on. “Hey, Agent Barnes! You want your chips in your sandwich or on the side?”

“Wh--on the side. I’m not a kid.” Barnes came downstairs, unsurprisingly back in his usual suit. He had his hands in his hair, pulling it back into a quick bun. “Need help with anything?”

“Just grab us some drinks and we’re set.” Clint placed the plates on the table, taking a seat and very purposely pushing down on his sandwich until the chips inside it crunched. “Not a kid, psh. That just means you don’t know how to have fun.”

“I know how to have fun.” Barnes placed two sodas on the table and took a seat. “I just also know when to be professional.”

“Professional? Overrated. Why do you think I always worked from home? No one to stop me from wearing sweatpants. Or _no_ pants.” He paused to eat, mulling it over in his head. “So, what’s a guy like you do for fun?”

Barnes shook his head. “Classified information.”

“Bullcrap. I’m not talking about your _job_ , I’m talking about your _life_. You’ve got the weekend off, what’s the first thing you do?”

“I…” He took a bite of his sandwich, looking down. “There’s a farmer’s market near my apartment that’s only open on weekends. I go there, I get fresh produce, then I go to the butcher shop and get a good steak. Make myself a nice dinner. That’s my weekend off.”

“Okay, so cooking? Or is it that you’re a foodie?”

“Cooking. I don’t make anything weird or complicated, but I like… The sense of accomplishment that comes from following a recipe. Knowing I made something. Even if it’s just for myself.” Barnes’ head was still down, but Clint _swore_ he heard a smile in those words. “Even if it doesn’t last.”

He didn’t have much to say to that. He floundered, tried to find something to add to the conversation. Cooking wasn’t his forte by any means. Finding a takeout place that would deliver to his apartment was more his speed. Still, he didn’t want to let the small opening Barnes had given him close. “Have you tried one of those, uh, community garden places? They have them in some of the nicer neighborhoods, I guess. Could grow your own stuff.”

“I’m not in town enough to take care of a garden. Besides, I once killed a plastic plant.”

Clint almost choked. “ _How_?”

“It caught on fire.” Barnes shrugged, as if that was all the explanation that was needed. Clint waited almost a full minute before realizing it was all the explanation he was going to get.

Abruptly, Barnes pushed back from the table, picking up his empty plate and glass. “I’m going to do a perimeter check, I’ll be back in about an hour. You have your panic alarm?”

“Always.” Clint held it up with a grin. “It’s never more than arm’s reach away, just like you told me.”

“Good.”

“Hey, we still on for aloe time when you get back? I dunno about you, but I definitely need it.”

Barnes paused at the back door, looking over his shoulder. “Sure,” he said eventually, the word coming out measured enough that Clint could hear the entire mental debate that had preceded it as if Barnes had spoken out loud.

He let it go, however, only gave a thumbs up and stood to start cleaning up from dinner. He had Lucky to feed, and he should probably start a load of laundry.

Clint was surprised, to say the least, when Barnes came back and got the aloe out of the downstairs bathroom. He held up the bottle, raising an eyebrow, and Clint scrambled to pull his shirt off.

“Figured you’d changed your mind.”

“I had, but then I went back outside. Tomorrow we’re going to remember the sunblock.” He frowned for a moment, before glancing at the stairs. “It, um, might be easier… lying down.”

The urge to tease was intense, but Clint swallowed it in and nodded. “My bed?” He offered instead, already climbing the stairs. “I gotta wash my sheets anyways, so if they get aloe on them it’s not a big deal.”

He flopped ungracefully onto the bed, settling in face down, pillowing his head on his arms. After a minute, Clint looked over his shoulder, grinning. “Don’t get shy on me now, Barnes.”

“You’re comfortable with this, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Of course. Nothing weird about two guys lying in bed rubbing aloe on each other. Reminds me of college.”

Barnes made a face. “You didn’t go to college.”

“Touche. Come aloe me before I spontaneously combust.” He wiggled a little, trying to look inviting.

The weight on the bed shifted as Barnes sat down, then slowly climbed over to knee over Clint’s back. His knees dug in at either side of the prone man’s hips, their bodies not quite touching. After an unbearable pause, Barnes squirted some aloe onto Clint’s back, making him hiss at the cool contact, and began rubbing it into the inflamed skin.

Clint let out a long groan, almost a moan, as the hands worked on his back. “Oh my _god_ ,” he gasped, drawing out each word longer than the last. “That feels _so_ good.”

“You’re tense. Muscles are all knotted.” Barnes dug his thumb in along Clint’s shoulder blade and he practically melted into the sheets. “What do you do, sleep sitting up?”

“Sometimes. I think that’s all--oh, oh, yes, _right there_ \--all from--” Clint cut himself off with another satisfied groan. “Y-yesterday. Archery.”

Barnes hummed noncommittally, working more aloe into Clint’s skin, his hands still working the tension out of his muscles. It hurt, but in a very good way, each painful press leading to a sweet release. The hands on him moved up, rubbing into his neck and shoulders, before sliding down his sides. He was moaning and groaning loud enough that, back in the city, the neighbors would have heard, but he just didn’t care. It was heaven, sweet excruciating heaven.

The firm pressure stopped eventually, replaced with hands just barely touching him, sweeping up and down his spine. Clint groaned softly, turning his head and looking over his shoulder. He felt loose and relaxed, like years of treating himself like garbage had just disappeared. “How the _hell_ does an FBI agent know how to do _that_?”

“I’m not an FBI agent, I’m a US Marshall. But I took some classes.” Barnes sat back and Clint rolled over carefully, propped himself up. “I had a target who liked to go to a very… specific massage parlor. It was the best situation we could find to get to him.”

“That doesn’t sound like someone you were protecting.”

“He wasn’t.”

Clint nodded, scooting back until his legs were no longer between Barnes’. “Well, glad you didn’t end this one by snapping my neck or something. Your turn?” He picked up the bottle of aloe, shaking it slightly. “I’m not quite as good at the massage part, but I can definitely take care of the sunburn.”

Barnes hesitated a moment, before slowly nodding. He’d already taken off his suit jacket, had rolled up the sleeves of his button down before he’d gotten started on Clint (and boy, was _that_ a mental image that he was going to replay for the foreseeable future). Now he unbuttoned it slowly, shrugging it off and putting it aside. He paused, looking around the room, before carefully turning his back. Clint hissed in a breath in sympathy at the bright red skin around the shape of Barnes’ tank top, as well as the deeper scars that came over his left shoulder and onto his back.

“Anywhere I shouldn’t touch?” He asked softly, squirting some aloe into his hands and rubbing them together. They were angled so Barnes could see him in the mirror, and Clint did his best to keep eye contact.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, you’re fine.”

“Just making sure.” He started on the right regardless, worked aloe into Barnes’ heated skin with steady strokes. Clint added more and focused on the back of his neck, easing over to his left side. It was almost silent as he worked, even their breathing seeming muffled in the stillness of the evening.

He ran out of excuses to touch too soon, had to take his hands off of Barnes’ warm skin, stop feeling just how muscled he was. Clint eased off the bed, crossing to the bathroom and washing his hands. The aloe on his skin had soaked in, he could pull on a t-shirt… 

“Thank you,” Barnes spoke up, still on the bed, and Clint turned back to the bathroom door. He was looking down, his fingers curling slightly in the sheets. After a moment, he looked back up. “Most people… treat it like it’s something awful that they shouldn’t even acknowledge. Like they’ll set me off if they look at it.”

Like Clint didn’t have his own scars. Like he would be bothered by Barnes’. He hadn’t even thought about it, besides making sure it was okay to touch. So, he shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “It’s cool. You wanna watch a movie or something?”

Barnes squinted at him for a moment, like he had expected a different response, and maybe he had. Maybe he’d been waiting for Clint to ask how he got them. Well, he could keep waiting. Slowly, he nodded, standing up from the bed and picking up his shirt and jacket. “Movie. Sure.”

They settled in with Netflix, Clint in a chair and Barnes on the couch, some horror movie on the TV. It was barely twenty minutes in when Lucky joined them, looking between Clint and Barnes briefly before climbing up onto the couch. He wiggled until he was in Barnes’ lap and Clint grinned, shrugged helplessly at the look the agent gave him.

“Dogs gonna dog, man.”

Barnes shook his head, settling his hand on the back of Lucky’s neck and beginning to stroke his fur gently. Clint turned back to the movie, curling his legs under himself on the chair.

It was late by the time it was over, well past dark, and both figures on the couch were soundly asleep. Clint moved around carefully, shutting off lights and muting the television. He cocked his head as he heard an engine approaching, moving slowly to the front windows.

Lights bounced up the driveway and Clint’s heart leapt into his throat, his gaze darting back to Barnes. Steve wasn’t going to be back until tomorrow, he’d said. No one else knew they were out here.

Clint was a second away from waking the agent up and raising the alarm when the perimeter motion lights came on. They highlighted the pickup truck that had replaced the SUV, highlighted Steve behind the wheel. Clint exhaled slowly, stepping back from the window and closer to the couch. A few minutes later, the exterior lights shut off and Steve let himself in the front door.

“Hey,” Clint said softly, stepping over and waving towards the couch. “Don’t wake them up.”

“Barely keeping myself awake. Everything okay here?” Steve dropped his voice to a whisper, shutting the front door and resetting the alarm.

“It’s fine. Last perimeter check was around six and there’s been absolutely nothing until you came up the drive.”

“I should…” He yawned hugely, shaking his head. “Check the cameras, at least, out in the barn.”

“We’re _fine_ , Steve. It can wait until morning. I was just getting ready to go to bed.”

Steve frowned, looking over to the couch again. His shoulders dropped. “You know how much crap I’ll get if I don’t at least do a camera sweep? It’ll take ten minutes, tops. Go to bed, it’s late. I’ll wake Barnes up when I get in and put him in a proper bed.”

He wasn’t going to win that argument. Clint nodded finally, climbing the stairs with a little wave. “See you tomorrow.”

He was out before Steve got back from the barn, didn’t hear either agent go to bed. He barely woke up when Lucky hopped into the bed with him, only rolled over enough to make room for the dog.


	3. Chapter 3

Learning how to fight wasn’t easy, but learning how to shoot the handgun Steve had brought him was a whole different kind of hard.

He could hold the handgun just fine, though the temptation to continue to do it wrong, just to have Barnes stand close to him and speak low and firm in his ear correcting his posture was strong. He could aim at the targets at their makeshift range, control his breathing, flick the safety off with his thumb.

And then he’d pull the trigger, a smooth motion with proper follow-through, just like when he shot an arrow, and--

_It sounded like a muffled cough, and Mary took a step back, holding her stomach before falling to the floor. Bright blood pooled around her in seconds--_

He’d flinch.

Every time.

The bullet would go astray, hitting the edge of the target or the safety berms or the ground in front of them. Barnes would sigh, audible even through their ear protection, and have him reset. Do it again.

“Okay, stop,” he finally declared, pulling off his ear protection and stepping up. “Your problem isn’t here.” He touched Clint’s hand where he’d been holding the gun, fingers warm and calloused. “It’s here.” One finger poked Clint’s forehead. “Would you prefer not to learn how to shoot, Mr. Brandt?”

“I’m trying, okay? It’s just...” He trailed off, the words stuck in his throat.

“What?”

Clint shook his head. “Nothing.”

Barnes frowned at him, before picking up the gun, carefully ejecting the magazine and pulling back the slide to pop the bullet out of the chamber. He aimed it at the ground, looking back towards the house. “We’re done for today.”

“Come on, Barnes, let me keep practicing.”

“No. All you’re doing is wasting ammunition. When you decide to get out of your head, then we can try again.” He turned, walking away stiffly. “I’m going to do a perimeter check.”

Clint sighed heavily, picking up their ear protection and heading back for the house. He unhooked Lucky from his leash on the way, patting the dog’s head gently. “Free reign again, good boy,” Clint whispered, letting himself inside and dropping onto a stool at the kitchen island.

Steve was preparing lunch, fighting to keep a pot of noodles from boiling over, but he looked over his shoulder as Clint sat down. “How’d it go?”

“He’s such a hardass!” Clint groaned immediately, running his hands through his hair. “He says that I’m wasting time practicing until I ‘get out of my head.’ Whatever that means.”

“Have you ever--” A hissing noise from the stove cut him off and Steve whipped around, fighting to reign in their lunch before it became a disaster. He dumped the noodles into a strainer in the sink, staring down at them forlornly. “I think I overcooked these again…”

Clint snorted laughter. "Cold water, it'll shock them into not cooking any _more_ at least." He waved at Steve's surprised look. "I might like take out more than is healthy, but I sort of know how to cook."

Steve ran the tap for a moment, before shaking his head. “I have to admit, not being able to just call take out is the worst part about this particular job. Anyways.” He wiped his hands on a towel, taking a seat on Clint’s side of the island. “Well, you've never shot a gun before, right? Is it the noise? You said you bow hunted when you were a kid, and James told me it was because it was less noisy.”

“Yeah. We weren’t exactly hunting legally…” Clint shifted on his chair, looking down. “I’ve pulled a trigger before, but--ugh, it’s dumb.”

The other man was frowning, looking down at his hands on the counter. “It’s not dumb if it’s bothering you. I’ve had to tell Bu--James that enough times in the last year or so. Don’t make me start harping on you with it, too.”

“Why’d you have to tell him that?” Barnes’ problems were way more interesting than examining his own internal struggles. Clint sat up a little straighter. “I mean, he seems like a stone cold professional. I can’t even get him to _smile_.”

“He didn’t used to be like that.” Steve shrugged, biting his lip. “It’s not my story to tell, but--his last assignment, things went poorly. He was working protection and the assailants got a bead on them. He got his target out, but he disappeared for almost a week. When we found him... “ Steve rubbed his left shoulder gently. “It was bad. They’d tried to get information out of him with torture. Recovery was a pretty slow process, and he blamed himself for getting found in the first place. Said he’d let himself get sloppy.”

Clint looked towards the back of the house, exhaling slowly. No wonder Barnes was all about professionalism. “How long did it take him to recover?”

“This is his first job back. Sort of a test, to see if he’s ready. Protection detail isn’t usually a two person assignment.”

It all made so much sense, and Clint groaned softly, dropping his head into his hands. “He probably thinks I’m just messing around, not taking this whole thing seriously, huh?”

Steve grinned crookedly. “A little bit. But that’s not your fault.”

“Should I talk to him?”

“When you’re ready. Whatever’s making shooting a gun harder for you than throwing a punch of shooting an arrow, you should talk to _someone_ about it. Barnes is probably more helpful in that arena than I am.”

Pushing himself off the stool, Clint nodded. “No time like the present, then. Maybe we should stick to sandwiches for lunch, huh?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m gonna try to save this spaghetti.”

Barnes had said he was doing a perimeter check, so when Clint stepped out front to wait for his return, he startled so hard it nearly knocked him off the porch. There was Barnes, sitting on the porch swing with Lucky lying next to him, gently petting the dog’s head.

“Oh, uh, hey.” Clint pulled the door shut behind him, moving slowly over to the swing and hopping up as it swung towards him, getting as comfortable as he could with a dog tail hitting him in the chest. “St--Agent Steve said that I should… y’know, talk to you about my problem with the whole gun thing.”

Barnes snorted, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “He did _not_ ask you to call him that.”

“Wh--yeah, he totally asked me to call him that! Said it didn’t make sense to call him _Agent Rogers_ when it’s just us out here.”

“Oh, I’m sure he said that. I just know he didn’t ask you to call him _Agent Steve_.” Barnes laughed softly, shaking his head. Clint felt his stomach twist, the knots in it loosening before tying themselves in another way. God, Barnes looked good when he smiled.

No, he had to focus. “Right, well, _Steve_ said that I should… talk to you about the whole gun thing. I was just hoping I’d have time to sit on the porch and make my thoughts make sense, instead of having to walk out here and dump them in all kinds of stupid order.”

“You want me to leave?” The smile dropped away, Barnes’ face serious again.

“No--not least of all because Lucky’s practically asleep. Probably I would have figured it all out and then lost my nerve if I’d had time to think about it, anyways.” Clint sat back, closing his eyes and breathing slowly. “I… heard it. When they shot her. The audio didn’t capture on my computer and the company claims that it was deleted, but… I heard it over the phone. And every time I pull that trigger, I hear it again. I don’t just see the target, I see Mary Parker getting shot and the blood and--” His words were rushing out and he forced himself to shut up, to just breathe instead. “They shot her in the stomach. She had time to feel it.”

Barnes looked over to him, his lips pursed together. Finally, he nodded. “You have nightmares about it, don’t you?”

“I--” Clint swallowed, nodded slowly. “Not really about--about what happened. It’s always… reliving the feelings. Reliving being scared and helpless to do anything while someone is hurt in front of me.” He tried for a smile, knew it was weak. “A lot of them also involve zombies.”

“It’s your brain trying to cope with the situation. Trying to put your emotions back into it, because it thinks if it finds the right combination of events, it can make sense of what you experienced. The intellectual part of your brain knows that there’s no sense to it, but other parts can’t get the memo.” Barnes looked down, turning his left hand over. “It’s been a year, and I still have dreams where I’m trying to run away, and I’m not moving forward, and then I look back and my arm is stuck in something, or being grabbed by someone, or--sometimes in the dreams it’s just me holding onto something and not wanting to let go. My shrink says that they’ll go away on their own, but I dunno. I just know that you’re less than a month post-event, and a lot of your processing has been put on hold because things keep happening to re-traumatize you.”

“So how do I get over it and learn how to shoot a gun?”

Barnes shrugged. “Maybe you don’t. Not here, at least. Maybe you let me and Steve be the ones to shoot the guns. You can trust us, you know.”

“I know.” He smiled again, still tentative, but a little more confident in it. “I _do_ trust you guys. Just maybe not in the kitchen.”

“Oh, god, it is his turn to make lunch, isn’t it?” Barnes buried his head in his hands, groaning. “Sandwiches again?”

“He’s trying to salvage some overcooked pasta right now, but probably sandwiches again.”

“I’m going to go… try to rescue him from himself. Wish me luck.” Moving carefully, he got down from the swing, sighing as Lucky immediately jumped down after him. Clint knew the feeling well--all that work to not disturb the dog, only to have him get up immediately after. He waved as Barnes headed inside, giving the swing a little push to set it rocking again.

Once the door shut, Clint allowed himself a beaming smile, pumping his fist in victory.

He’s officially made Agent Stuffy not just smile, but _laugh_.

Victory was his.

* * *

Things were shockingly… calm, after that. Considering he was being protected against a legitimate threat to his life, Clint found himself actually enjoying being out in the country. He’d gotten used to the quiet, to the routines that Steve and Barnes kept, and found his own rhythm. The idea of him carrying a gun was put aside, though his hand-to-hand combat lessons continued. Clint gave the two agents a heads up when he ordered things online, and the dedicated postal worker who delivered their mail no longer faced certain death when coming up the driveway.

It was a peaceful hidden seclusion.

“Barnes!” Clint called one morning, out on the porch with his coffee, as he spotted the agent coming back from a perimeter check. Peaceful didn’t mean they could let their guard down, after all.

“Problem, Mr. Brandt?” Barnes stepped up to him, bending down to stroke Lucky’s head, patting the dog’s flank as he rolled onto his back.

“Opposite. You wanna go into town today?” Clint rushed on before Barnes could shut him down. “There’s a farmer’s market in town and it’s opening weekend. I get the feeling that’s kind of a big deal around here. We can get some fresh produce and then stop at the store and get some meat, come back and make a nice dinner.”

Barnes raised an eyebrow. “How on earth do you know there’s a farmer’s market?” He was trying not to show it, but Clint swore there was a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

“I found a community message board. Don’t worry, I didn’t sign up or anything, I just skim the public announcements. Weekend one of the farmer’s market came up earlier this week, and…” He tried to force himself to stay neutral, but it was a losing battle. “And I’m going kind of crazy out here. You and Steve are nice, but I need to hear some different voices every few weeks, you know?”

For a second, Barnes’ face shut down, the spark of interest in his eyes snapping off. He frowned, looking around. “This location is secure. In town, especially at a big community event, it would be almost impossible to monitor every angle. And we haven’t vetted the entire town.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m gonna ignore that the government might just decide to look into people because they live near someone. That’s a little too _1984_ for me. Second of all, when I say it’s a big deal, I mean it’s a big deal on _this_ scale. We’re talking probably a hundred people there all day, tops. I mean hell, this town only has a population of like six hundred, according to wikipedia.” He wasn’t above begging--or asking Steve--but he really, _really_ wanted to go. See some of the world besides their farmhouse. Get Barnes to open up a little more, maybe even smile again.

Barnes was still frowning, looking at Clint’s face closely. After almost ten seconds of tense silence, he sighed, shoulders falling. “What time does it open?”

Clint almost strained something keeping in his whoop of excitement. He fought for a normal tone of voice, rather than sounding like a kid in a candy shop. “It opens at 10.”

“Let me get changed and tell Steve the plan. Lucky stays here, though.”

“Deal.” Clint followed him inside, trooping up to his room to also get changed. Sweatpants and a t-shirt he mostly slept in weren’t proper farmer’s market attire.

The three of them piled into the front seat of the truck, Clint somewhat begrudgingly taking the middle. He couldn’t pout for too long, though. The first day off the farm since he’d gotten there was way too exciting of a prospect.

It had been dusk edging towards dark when they’d first arrived at the farm, and Clint had been too keyed up to really look around. Now, as they drove into town, he couldn’t help but stare out the window in wide-eyed excitement. The town itself wasn’t much more than a wide place in the road, but he spotted the essentials--a post office, a grocery store, a hardware store. There was one blinking traffic light in the middle of it, crosswalks painted on the unlined blacktop to allow people to cross the road safely. On the other side were what he supposed would be called municipal buildings: a library, a police/fire station, and a town hall.

Out past the buildings, open fields took over again quickly, but instead of being full of hay, they were filled with vehicles, leading to large white tents. Steve found them a parking space and all three of them climbed out of the truck, Clint’s eager steps pulled up short as Barnes put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t isolate yourself, stay with me or Steve. Keep on alert of anyone that seems to be paying _too_ much attention to you. Note your exits, don’t lose track of them. And for the love of god--”

“Keep my panic button handy, I know.”

Barnes’ brows furrowed, his mouth drawing down. “Actually, smartass, I was going to tell you to remember that your name is _Cory Brandt_ and you’re a writer.”

Clint gave a quick salute. “You bet. Who’re you guys to me?”

Steve came around the truck, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “James and I are your research assistants. You write true crime, and we help organize your notes. You’re out here to get some peace and quiet from Chicago, but also because your newest book is on how serial murders impact small towns.”

“You guys moved me to a serial killer town?” He nearly yelped the words, looking around quickly. “ _Seriously_?”

Barnes leveled him with a flat look. “One hypothetical serial killer in the forties who _might_ have passed through this place. You do realize how many murders happen in the city, right? Crime around here is mostly bored teenagers vandalizing property.”

“Serial killer town,” Clint muttered, mostly just emphasize his point. He looked over his shoulder, towards the tents. “So, we gonna market, or we gonna stand around and talk all day?”

Both agents rolled their eyes, but Clint had already decided. He started walking, feeling more than seeing as they fell into step with him. This was his first time out in public in _weeks_ , he was going to take full advantage of it.

His guess of a hundred people there had probably been overselling it. The first tent they walked into had exactly six people in it: two women at the tables, selling flowers from one and seeds from the other, and a family of four who were quickly shuffling out. Father, mother, two sons, passing through to get to what would pass as the real action. There were voices further in, drifting back, people bargaining or hawking their goods or just shooting the breeze. Outside had smelled like freshly mowed hay, but in here the scent of florals overwhelmed it immediately.

Clint saw the woman ahead of him look back at the flower display, wistful, before the man closed his hand on her arm and led her out of the tent, after the two boys. His mouth moved, words lost under the rushing in Clint’s ears, but he knew what the man had said.

_“Don’t waste your time.”_

_“I have some money from my sister--”_

_“We’re here for business, Edith, not frivolous things.”_

_The rest of his parents' words were gone under the din of the crowd, under farmers-turned-salesmen calling out their goods. Clint looked eagerly to either side, one hand closing over the front pocket of his jeans. He had earned five dollars from mowing Mrs. Grant’s lawn, a pittance for the hours of work he’d put in, but it was_ his _and he wasn’t going to waste it._

_People greeted his father as they passed, pulled him aside to talk business. Boring adult things, things Clint would never let himself get caught up in. He shifted eagerly from foot to foot, looking back as his parents stood and talked with the Harrington’s for an eternity. Harrington Farms raised beef steers as well as dairy cows, and his father was always trying to talk Mr. Harrington down in price on his meat._

_Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. Barney had already disappeared into the crowd, deemed old enough to go off on his own and come back. Clint scooted closer to his mother, tugging the skirt of her dress gently. “Can I go ahead?”_

_She looked from him to the crowded market, before nodding shortly. “Don’t get lost.”_

_“I won’t. Love you, ma!” He was off, ducking between people, losing himself in the sights and sounds and amazing smells of the spring market. There was an entire tent of toys and games, he knew, and another one with clothes, and the food--the food tent was like a little slice of heaven. Even if he didn’t eat anything in it, just walking through was a worthwhile experience. Popcorn and ice cream and lollipops as big as a kid’s head (though, they got smaller every year it seemed like)._

_He had five dollars to spend, which somehow both was and wasn’t a fortune. It wouldn’t buy him anything absurd, like the hunting knife he had been hoping to get for Christmas (lightweight titanium alloy, lifetime guarantee to never rust, a leather-wrapped handle, with a waterproof sheath for $47.95), but he also wasn’t going to be relegated to the cheap used toys that would break within a week. He could get food, of course, but that wouldn’t_ last _and besides--things were always a little scarce in the winter, but it was spring, times would pick up again. By eleven, he knew the cycle._

 _Clint wandered from table to table, picking things up and putting them down. There was a hunting knife, made of plain old stainless steel and not even with a sheath, and the seller_ still _wanted fifteen dollars for it. There was a fancy compound bow that he barely dared to breathe near, priced at a mind-boggling two hundred and fifty dollars. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch it, to feel the sleek metal, see how it compared to his recurve (thirty-five pound draw, but the elastic was wearing thin, he’d have to get it replaced before next hunting season if he wanted to be able to take down something big again), enjoy the moment when the axles took over and the strain on his shoulder was transferred to the bow, but the salesman was eyeing him distrustfully and Clint regrettably moved on. He’d fired a compound bow once, at a practice range, and it had been amazing._

_Arrows were a good investment, though he wasn’t keen to return to that particular sales table. And again--it could wait until hunting season. He had a whole summer of chores to earn enough money to fix up his bow and get more arrows. For today, the money in his pocket was unspoken for._

_Clint considered the clothes and shoes, but dismissed them out of hand. He had plenty of hand-me-downs from Barney and besides, that was lame. He wanted something cool, something that would show his father he knew the value of his money, of his work. Something that the old man would look at and nod in approval._

_Or…_

_His eyes lit up, steps stopping abruptly before he turned and ran back towards the beginning of the row of tents. Clint ducked around people to shouts of surprise and annoyance, nearly fell into the tent where the two ladies were selling flowers._

_Big bunches of flowers in beautiful glass vases, loose cut stems wrapped in papers and ribbons, bunches of carefully dried flowers hanging from strings. Clint stepped up to the table, digging his crumpled bills and lint-riddled change from his pocket. He counted it out slowly, making sure not to confuse his quarters and nickels (he was no good at math, that was why his father still wouldn’t let him use the cash register at the store), and gently passed the five dollars to the lady behind the counter._

_“What can I get for this?”_

_“Hm…” She looked him up and down, smiled and tilted her head towards the far end of the table. There were fresh flowers in pots, some just starting to bloom and others full of riotous spring color. She picked up a pot with a small, leafy growth in it, turning it towards him. “This is catmint, it blooms in the summer and smells very sweet. This one is a small breed, so it won’t grow too large for this pot, but it will make beautiful purple flowers in June if you take good care of it, and they’ll come back every year as long as the roots stay alive.”_

_“And it’s five dollars?” He couldn’t believe it. There had to be some sort of catch._

_The woman smiled and nodded. “Four dollars and ninety-five cents, to be exact.”_

_“I’ll take it! Thank you!” His mother was going to be so happy, she’d get her flowers--and they’d keep coming back! Clint nearly bounced with excitement as the woman carefully bagged up his plant, stuffing the nickel of his change into his pocket and taking the bag. He wanted to run to find his mother, but he didn’t want to drop or crush her flower. With effort, he made himself walk back into the depths of the market._

“Catmint,” Clint muttered, blinking himself out of the memory. It had to have only been a few seconds, just long enough for the family of four to step out of the tent, just long enough for him to drift towards the table.

“Catmint?” The woman repeated, smiling and nodding. “We have a few varieties, though it’s not really the time of year to plant it. It does better in the spring, usually blooms into these lovely purple flowers in early summer.”

“Yeah, I… I had a plant, when I was a kid. Well, my mom did.” He shook it off, looked over his shoulder to where Steve and Barnes--James, today he was James--were trying to be inconspicuous. “It grows kind of wild if you’re not careful, right?”

She laughed, nodding. “A little, but it’s not particularly harmful or competitive. And bees love it. We sold a whole heap to the Grimly’s bee farm last year and their bees got so excited they had to install two new hives.”

“Wow.”

“So are you--”

“Cory,” Steve called, tilting his head towards the next tent, “you coming?”

“Yeah, on my way.” He turned back, giving her a smile and a shrug. “Maybe I’ll see you on the way out.”

“Take care.”

He fell in step with the two agents as they moved into the next tent, trying to shake off the force of memory. He hadn’t thought about that catmint plant in years, about his father’s disapproving look when he’d rejoined them, or his mother’s joy quickly turning to resignation, or--

Clint shoved those memories down, pulling ahead of the other two and browsing each table. It was like any other farmer’s market he’d been to, an eclectic collection of goods for sale, produce, junk, and a few stalls marketing nothing more than snake oil. He paused at a table selling baked goods and jars of honey, glancing at the label with a grin. _Grimly’s Local Honey_. Clint picked up a jar, turning it over in his hands. “Guess the lady up front wasn’t kidding about how excited your bees got.”

The man behind the counter beamed at him, nodding quickly. “They just love them flowers. I started keepin’ bees intending to only have a couple’a hives, but the bees had different plans. Had to sell a few sets just to keep up.”

“Well, with an endorsement like that, I’ll take a jar. How much?”

“For that size jar it’s five dollars.”

James appeared over his shoulder, brows drawn together in a frown. “Cory,” he started, voice pitched almost too low to be heard over the murmuring of the crowd, “do we really _need_ \--”

“No, but I want it. Come on, it’s time we be neighborly out here.” He pulled out his wallet, passing over a crisp bill. “Besides, that’s an incredible price for fresh, local honey. How can I refuse? A grocery store would charge at least double that.” Clint took the bag the man at the table offered him, slipping the honey inside. “You have a great day, now, Mr. Grimly.”

“You as well, you as well.”

They moved a few steps away and James touched his arm, the frown still on his face. “We haven’t vetted the Grimly’s yet.”

“I doubt he poisoned his honey just on the off chance that I came by to get a jar. Will you relax?” Clint shrugged him off, moving down the row of tables. “Look, there’s produce over there, near one of the three exits I’m keeping my eyes out for. You wanna find us something good for dinner?”

“I _want_ to be in a place where I don’t have to watch your back,” James grumbled, stalking off towards the produce stand. Clint winced in sympathy for the kids behind the counter. He hadn’t really meant to inflict James’ bad mood on them.

“He’s just trying to do his job right,” Steve offered, stepping up with his arms laden with bags. Clint raised an eyebrow. “I, uh, they had art supplies and--everyone needs a hobby, right?”

“Sure. Hey, I’m not one to judge, my first ‘I’m bored’ reaction was to buy weapons.”

Steve laughed, his cheeks still flushed. “Kind of surprises me that you two don’t get along better, honestly. I feel like that’d be his first ‘I’m bored’ impulse, too.”

“Pardon me, but are you Cory Brandt?” A voice spoke up behind him and Clint turned, looking the woman up and down quickly. Red hair pulled back into a loose bun, a warm smile, and clothes that looked a little too nice to be worked in. She stuck her hand out. “Natasha Romanoff. I’m… well,” she laughed softly, “I do a little bit of everything around here.”

Clint shook her hand, nodding. “Cory Brandt, like you said. This is Steve, and over intimidating the produce kids is James.”

“Good to finally meet you. You’re a writer, from Chicago, isn’t that right?”

“Yep. Guess word gets around fast out here.”

Natasha shrugged. “Nothing much else to talk about. It’s either the mysterious new writer that lives out at the old Bishop place or who’s going to win the annual pie prize.”

“Well, mystery solved, I guess.” He smiled, tried to ease the tension that Steve was emanating from beside him. “The peace and quiet has been good for my new book, but I figured I’d better get out here and try to keep some of my social skills.”

“Well…” Her eyes flicked past him, her cheeks coloring slightly. “Not to impose, but if you want to practice those social skills, I run the community library. I’m sure there’s folks that would be excited to meet a published author, we could do a little get-together.”

Clint blanched for a moment. Did his fake personality actually _have_ a published book? And how was he supposed to talk to a crowd about writing when he didn’t actually write? That wasn’t low-profile, there was no way his protectors would approve. “I’ll… think about it?”

“No worries, no worries. Don’t be a stranger, though. We might be small, but we have just about everything a person needs. No reason to go running all the way to Chicago for simple things.” Natasha gave him another warm smile, nodding and walking off.

Clint turned to Steve, trying to keep his tone casual. “Well, she seems nice--”

“We’re leaving,” Steve whispered, jerking his head towards the exit by the produce stand. “ _Now_.”

That was not a tone of voice that allowed argument, or questions, or anything but compliance. Clint started walking, eyes darting to the side as James fell into step with them--with a bag of fresh vegetables. The three of them made it outside and circled around the set up, back to the truck.

“Wait here,” Steve said, walking closer and circling the truck, dropping down to look under it. After a minute he nodded, putting his bags of art supplies into the truck bed. “Barnes?”

“All clear. Let’s go.” He shuffled Clint into the front seat, squished awkwardly between the two agents once again.

Once they were on the road back to the farmhouse, Clint sighed out some of the tension in him. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know who she is, but she’s no small town librarian. And she knows way too much about _you_ to be anything like good news,” Steve explained, his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled. “Your name, your location, your backstory--we haven’t exactly been going around town telling people that stuff.”

Clint licked his lips, the rest of the tension finally uncurling in his stomach. “Small towns gossip, she said so herself. There had to be paperwork to get me out here, and all it takes is one nosey old lady at the tax office with her bridge group on speed dial for everyone to know everyone’s business.” Both of them gaped at him and Clint shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re wrong to be worried if she put your wind up, but small towns are like this. Trust me, I grew up in one. You don’t need to keep a very careful ear out to know _everyone’s_ business.”

Barnes was still tense in the passenger seat, but Steve let out a small laugh, his grip on the steering wheel loosening up. “You think so?”

“Pretty sure.”

Barnes frowned, his gaze moving over the two of them. “We could put in for a relocation.”

“That’d be suspicious if she’s onto something. Let’s look into her and play it by ear,” Steve countered, pulling into their driveway.

A moment later he slammed on the brakes, the truck jolting to a stop. There was a car in front of the house, a black sedan with dark tinted windows. Clint looked between the two agents, his breath caught in his throat.

“Stay here,” Barnes whispered, opening the door and easing out, pulling a handgun from under the seat. Steve slid out of the driver’s seat, his motions equally smooth as he pulled his gun from his concealed shoulder holster.

Clint’s heart was pounding, the hair on his neck standing up with tension. Had someone found him? Why would they just leave their car out front? Oh, god, Lucky was somewhere on the property--

“At ease, gentlemen. It’s just me!” A voice called out, the window on the car rolling down and a hand coming out, holding up something black. Steve holstered his gun and approached the car, catching the black thing as it was tossed to him.

“What are you doing here, Coulson?” He stepped back as the door opened, handing back the item--credentials, Clint guessed--and nodding to Barnes.

“Looking for you. We need you to come in.”

“I’m in the middle of an assignment--”

“It’s Carter.”

Steve sucked in a breath, going still. Clint slid out of the truck, walking up slowly. He could see the play of emotions over Steve’s face, contorting his expression before it smoothed out to neutrality. “I can be ready in an hour.”

“Good.” The man, Coulson, turned to Barnes, nodding shortly. “Your psychological evaluations are acceptable and your field performance has been above par. I’ve already had your full duties reinstated, so there won’t be back-up coming. I trust you’ll be able to handle this assignment alone, Agent Barnes.”

Barnes nodded shallowly, looking back to Clint. “It won’t be a problem. Sir.”

“Perfect. Clock’s ticking, Rogers, you have forty minutes.”

Steve disappeared inside and Clint took a step to follow him, stopping when Barnes’ hand came in front of him. He looked over to the agent, frowning slightly, but Barnes only shook his head. _Later_ , he mouthed, and Clint nodded. This wasn’t his business, obviously. Instead he carefully moved around Barnes, giving a sharp whistle for Lucky.

The dog bounded out to join him, pausing long enough to give Coulson’s car a dismissive sniff before zeroing in on the pick-up truck. Clint hauled bags out of the back, careful to keep them away from the worst of Lucky’s drool. “Easy, boy, it’s just vegetables and art supplies,” he whispered, hauling the bags inside as Barnes and Coulson made their way in. “Way to leave me to carry all your stuff,” he grumbled, carefully dropping everything on the table and sorting through it, putting Steve’s purchases aside. Clint tucked his jar of local honey into the cupboard, finally getting a chance to look through the produce Barnes had bought.

Forty minutes after they’d pulled into the driveway, Clint watched Steve and Coulson disappear in the nondescript black sedan that had set off the two agents’ panic in the first place. He patted Lucky’s head as the dog whined, nodding. “Yeah, I hope he’s okay, too.” Steve had packed with as much care as a teenager going to a friend’s house for the night, just throwing his clothes into a duffle bag haphazardly. Clint had offered to help and been refused, then asked what the big rush was and been told point blank that it was information above his security clearance. So he’d left Steve alone until the man was almost out the door, then had shoved the bags of art supplies at him, ‘in case you have time for a hobby’ and wished him well.

Barnes had gone on a perimeter check rather than seeing Steve off.

Clint settled onto the porch swing in the quiet evening, content to rock and wait for the agent to return. 

_Later_ , it turned out, was well after sunset. Clint finally gave up on waiting Barnes out on the front porch--the agent could disappear like a damn ghost if he wanted to, it seemed like--and went inside, only to find a dinner mostly cooked and a table set for two. Barnes had a tablet on the kitchen island and was whisking something as a semi-robotic voice read instructions out loud.

“You weren’t kidding about the cooking,” he said, taking a deep inhale. Steaks were resting under little foil tents next to the stove and shimmering heat was coming from the oven.

“I figured your stomach would bring you inside eventually.” Barnes put the bowl aside and slid on an oven mitt, pulling out a steaming dish of roasted vegetables. He drizzled the concoction he’d been whisking onto it, giving it a quick, semi-professional toss before putting it back into the oven. “Steaks need to rest for another three to five minutes, and vegetables need about another eight in the oven.”

Barnes looked… _relaxed_. The most relaxed Clint had seen him in all their time together. He wasn’t smiling, but there was still an exuding calmness to him that took over the room. Slowly, Clint took a seat at the kitchen island, picking up the now quiet tablet and reading through the recipe. “This looks good. And smells even better.”

“It’s an old staple. Nice to actually make it for two people, instead of just having an awkward amount of leftovers.” Barnes wiped his hands off on a towel, grabbing a water glass and leaning on the counter opposite Clint as he drank. “You don’t have any food allergies, right?”

“I hope not. So.” Screw it, he might as well dive right in. “What was all that about with Steve?”

“Above your security clearance, like he said.” Barnes shook his head. “He and Carter were the ones to pull me out of the trouble I got into about a year back. They’ve been working follow-up on it while I’ve been, uh… Trying to convince everyone that I’m not in the middle of a nervous breakdown or major depressive episode or whatever the DSM is calling them these days. When my evals cleared me for field work again, with supervision, Steve was the one that offered to be my field supervisor. The trail had gone cold and no one else really wanted to get locked into isolation with me if I _wasn’t_ okay.” Barnes scratched the back of his neck lightly. “The caveat was that if Carter found a lead, he had to go back in for her. So I’m guessing she found something.”

“What were you doing when…” Clint gestured slightly. “Things went sideways?”

“I was protecting an asset that an international terrorist cell had specifically targeted. We knew who they wanted to hit and how, so it was sort of a low key job, just keeping an eye out to prevent a when and where being available. But there’s information leaks on all sides, and apparently they decided that the best way to get their real target was to try to make me do it for them. And that is all you get to know about that situation.” Barnes leveled him with a _look_ , though it wasn’t quite as severe as some of the _looks_ Clint had been given in his life.

“I’m gonna assume it had something to do with aliens, just ‘cause that sounds fun.”

Barnes rolled his eyes. “Sure.” He glanced at the clock, turning and shutting the oven off, opening the door once more to retrieve the vegetables. “Get yourself a drink, I’ll plate up and we’ll eat dinner.”

Having just the two of them there wasn’t much different than having three. They ate, they loaded the dishwasher, Clint lamented that no one had prepared dessert. Barnes went out to the barn--control room, he insisted on calling it--to double-check security protocols, then came back and settled in for a movie. They even talked, a little bit, about nothing of consequence.

Just the two of them wasn’t that different than three, but without Steve there, Clint was much more aware of the empty hours as the days went on. He found himself out at the little archery range in the yard more and more often, messing around and unsubtly waiting for Barnes to come back from a perimeter check. He was desperate for the simple human contact the other man provided.

Eventually, it led to Clint deciding to try the firearms lessons again.


	4. Chapter 4

“Breathe in,” Barnes instructed, close enough that his breath tickled the skin behind Clint’s ear. “Now breathe out.”

He kept the urge to make a snarky comment to himself, following the rhythm of deep breaths that Barnes had set. Slowly, Clint raised the handgun to the target. “Front sights, trigger press, follow through,” he murmured to himself, feeling Barnes nod behind him. Clint closed his eyes for a second, but there was nothing but a flickering after-image of the target behind his lids. No bleeding woman, no sneering man. He opened his eyes again, looked down the front sights to the target, and pulled the trigger.

It was loud as hell, even with their ear protection, and he cringed as he put the safety back on. There was a neat black hole in the center of the target paper.

“Good job. Safety on?”

“Safety on.” Clint kept the gun pointed at the ground, but turned it slightly to show Barnes. “I hit the target this time.”

“Amazing what happens when you shoot with your eyes open. You want to go again?”

His ears were ringing and he was getting thirsty, but having Barnes pressed up close to him--well, Clint wasn’t ready to let go of _that_ feeling just yet. He nodded, turning back to the target. “What am I aiming for?”

“Hmm… you can hit the bullseye pretty well. Top left, the smaller target. A hundred points for the center.”

“Do I win a prize?”

Barnes snorted, almost a laugh, his arms wrapping around Clint to adjust his posture slightly. “Sure. If you hit the dead center, I’ll cook _and_ do dishes tonight.”

He squinted, weighing the options. “And I get to call you by your first name.”

The agent's face twisted for a moment, confusion and something else, there and gone faster than Clint could catalog it. “Why would you want to?”

“Because it’s weird calling you Agent Barnes all the time. Do we have a deal?” Clint grinned when Barnes--soon to be James--nodded, relaxing into the posture, breathing in and out slowly. “You’re gonna regret that. Safety off, range live.”

“Range live.”

Front sights, trigger press, follow through. “Safety on,” Clint said, aiming the gun to the ground and turning to look.

A neat black hole, dead center in the top left target. A hundred points and a day off from dish duty.

And one more crack in the armor of distant professionalism _James_ wore.

He looked over his shoulder, beaming at James’ look of surprise and disbelief. “What’s wrong, thought I’d suck?”

James made a face at him, holding his hand out. Clint handed the gun over and stepped back. “Safety off, range live,” he announced a moment before the gun went off three times. Clint jumped, looking down the range. The other three corner targets each had a neat black hole in the center. “Safety on.”

“Show-off.” He nudged James lightly, jerking his head towards the house. “Come on, _James_ , let’s stop scaring the birds for a few hours.” He pulled his hearing protection off as James disarmed the gun, stretching and cracking his back. “I need another coffee.”

“How much coffee do you drink in a day? It can’t be healthy.”

“Eh,” Clint wiggled his hand. “Two to three pots?”

“You’re gonna die before you’re forty, Cory.” James was smiling, though, an ever-so-slight upturn of his mouth.

“Maybe, but it won’t be from a caffeine overdose.” He grinned, nudging James’ arm lightly as they walked. “And it won’t be from mobsters with a grudge, not when I have you to protect me.”

Clint was good at playing dumb, but his eyes were sharp. He saw the glances James snuck at him, and he saw the way the man’s face blanked and his cheeks grew pink before he got himself back under control. Clint knew simmering interest when it was there, and he wasn’t above playing it up a little bit. Especially when he was equally interested.

“Just doing my job, Mr. Brandt.” James hurried ahead to the house and Clint let his grin widen. It was almost _too_ easy, flirt a little and get him flustered.

Now if only he had a chance to push that further.

* * *

James mostly did the shopping they needed, and he mostly did it in Chicago. It made them both nervous to leave Clint completely alone out at the farm, but weighing the options, they agreed that going to the city for groceries every few weeks was better than a delivery service. _No routines_ , James had declared.

After that first trip to the farmer’s market, Clint hadn’t been back to town. He wondered what people thought of that, of the reclusive writer and his assistants, out alone on a farm. Surely the town gossip mill was running wild with what the three of them got up to. Did they know that Steve had left? Did they think there was something happening up at the farm besides a true crime story coming together?

He should have signed up for some magazines or something. The complete lack of mail had to strike the post office as odd. Outside of a few Amazon packages, they didn’t get _anything_ delivered to the house, not even junk mail.

All of that to say, there was no reason a car should have been coming up the drive on a random October morning. Clint was out front on the porch with Lucky and his second cup of coffee, bundled into a sweatshirt but enjoying the sun. He could see light glinting off the car’s windshield from a ways away, the high summer hay taken down by frost and storms in the fall, and he knew the car was coming towards him. James was off to Chicago for the day, Clint was on his own, and he was about to have company.

His first thought was the panic room, the little hidden alcove below the stairs that deadbolted from the inside and was nearly undetectable from the outside. Except that room was a mobile dead zone and if he went and locked himself in, he’d be trapped until James got back from Chicago in the late afternoon.

Clint considered the gun safe in the office, slowly getting to his feet and backing towards the door, eyes still on the car easing up his long dirt driveway. He could see it a little better now, the bright red paint standing out like a shock against the browns and grays of midwestern autumn. It didn’t look like the cars he’d been told to watch out for.

Indecision froze his steps for a moment too long and Lucky barked at his side, standing up. He growled from the porch, the sound low and threatening, finally snapping Clint out of his own panic.

“Lucky, heel,” he whispered, rushing back inside and grabbing his cell phone from the charger in the kitchen. He held down the 2 button, pressing it to his ear as the call connected.

“Barnes.”

“Someone’s coming up the driveway, red car, that’s all I got.”

Even over the phone, he could hear tires screech and horns honk. “Where are you?”

“Kitchen.” Lucky let out a whine and Clint looked up, saw the car pull into the front yard. “Uh, red car, two doors, looks a little older and--”

“Get low and stay low. Lock yourself and the dog in the panic room. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

The driver’s side door was opening. Clint ducked behind the kitchen island, grabbing Lucky’s collar as the dog barked again. “I, um, left the front door open.”

“Jesus Christ, just lock yourself in the panic room. It’s reinforced steel.”

“Cory?” Footsteps on the porch stairs, a feminine voice calling his fake name. Clint’s stomach dropped. “You home?” Knocking on the screen door. She was too close, if he bolted for the panic room she’d see him. “Hello?”

Lucky whined and pulled at his collar, yanking out of Clint’s grasp. He cursed under his breath as the dog ran to the door, hanging up his cell phone and dropping it into the pocket of his sweatpants. That voice was familiar.

“Oh… well, hi there, big boy. Are you the only one home today?”

Clint dared a glance around the corner of the island, letting out a slow exhale of relief. It was Natasha, standing at the front door and looking down at Lucky. He worked fast, threw a splash of coffee from his cup on the floor and stood to grab paper towels. “Oh.. Oh, hey, um--Natasha, right? Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up. Damn dog bolted and knocked over my coffee.” The sacrifice would not be in vain, he promised himself, kneeling down and wiping up the spill. “Come on in!”

The door squeaked as she let herself in, Lucky barking once before settling down. Clint pulled himself up from behind the counter, hand closing around his phone as it buzzed in his pocket, silencing the incoming call. He’d text James that it was all clear in a minute.

“Sorry to drop in on you unannounced like this, but Marty down in the town office said you didn’t have a home number on public record.” She smiled, glancing around the room before focusing back on him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, not at all. I could use the distraction, honestly. Did you want a drink?” Clint looked over his shoulder. “I’ve got tap water and a keurig.”

“If you have tea, that would be nice.”

He busied himself with making a tea for her and another cup of coffee, aware of Natasha’s meandering steps, her wandering eyes. Checking out the renovations. The gun safe in the office wasn’t visible from the kitchen, and the panic room just looked like a regular wall to the untrained eye. Hopefully she wouldn’t want to see the barn, though.

His phone buzzed in his pocket again as he set their drinks on the counter and Clint silenced it without looking. As soon as he could find a reason to be alone, he’d call James and tell him it was a false alarm. “So, Natasha, what brings you out here?”

“Just being neighborly.” She sipped the tea, the corner of her mouth pulling up. “Well, _mostly_ just being neighborly. Small towns talk, and he’s half-blind and all stupid, but Mr. Wilkers who delivers your mail is a renowned gossip. He’s been saying… _things_ about the ‘fellas livin’ in the old Bishop place’ around town.” Her lips pursed. “Unkind things.”

“So you’re here to salvage my reputation? That’s nice of you, but I don’t put much weight into other people’s opinions of me.”

“You should, at least around here. If people find a reason not to like you, it can become a whole ordeal should you ever run into trouble.”

Clint took a long drink from his coffee, trying to give himself time to think. Time to process her words. “You think a guy like me could run into trouble?”

The look she gave him was flat and unimpressed, like she could see right through his casual attitude. “I do.”

“Harsh. But even if you’re not wrong, we’re pretty self-sufficient out here.” He tried for a smile, knew a laugh would come out too fake. “I understand what you’re saying, though. I grew up in a small town, out in Iowa. I know how people can be. It’s just been…” He gestured slightly towards the front of the house, where the office was. “Productive, being isolated. More than I thought it’d be.”

Natasha nodded. “Productive… I see. You know, it’s interesting,” she paused, taking an audible sip of her tea, “that you came all the way out here, probably invested a lot of money into this place, to work on your first book. What did you do before writing, Cory, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck and Clint was sure his face was tellingly blank. He tried to cover with another drink of coffee, but his mug was empty, just air at his mouth. His eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, thinking of the gun safe, the panic room, the bow he had leaned against the back door. All of those were too far away, and besides, what was he supposed to do? Kill a small town librarian for asking too many questions? That would make him no better than the people trying to kill _him_. “I, uh…”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed on him, before she smiled, shook her head, and laughed gently. “Sorry, sorry. Now I sound just as bad as the gossips at the PTA and church suppers. I didn’t come out here to dig up all your dark secrets or anything.”

He took the out, forcing as natural of a laugh as he could. “You’d need a tractor to get to the real ones, anyways. I’m a pretty boring guy, unfortunately. Part of the reason I haven’t taken you up on that library event--I don’t really know how to talk about myself.”

Natasha smiled, nodding her head quickly. “I have the same problem, really. Hate talking about myself, so I usually turn conversations into bombarding the other person with questions. Didn’t make me very popular when I moved here.”

Clint dove on that opportunity. “When did you move here?”

He had no doubt that she was leading the conversation still, steering him into asking the questions she wanted to answer, but Natasha made for pleasant company. After almost forty minutes, their drinks long gone, she excused herself to the restroom. Clint looked around, trying to remember what he was supposed to do when he was alone. It was important, but his head was still full of the information she’d shared--first about herself, then about the town.

He caught a glint of sunlight on glass through the front window just as Natasha came out of the bathroom and his heart slammed into his throat. Agent Barnes. James coming back because he’d called and said someone was coming on the property. Oh, god, James was absolutely going to shoot first and demand answers later, and he was _not_ going to let a small town librarian get murdered if he could help it.

“Looks like James is back,” Clint squeaked, hopping down from his stool and hurrying for the front door. “I’m gonna see if he needs help carrying anything in.”

“I can help--”

Clint waved her off quickly. “Nonsense. You just stay put until we come back inside.” He rushed out the door, stepping around Natasha’s car and leaning on the back of it.

James barely had the truck stopped before he was out of it, nearly tackling Clint in his effort to get to him. “Why aren’t you in the panic room?” He wasn’t shouting, but it was a close thing. For the first time since Clint had seen him, James looked truly panicked.

“Relax, relax. Breathe. Our surprise guest is Natasha, the librarian. She’s not a threat. Please don’t kill her.” He settled his hands on James’ shoulders, met his eyes steadily. “Look, I’m not even blinking twice to indicate that I’m lying.”

“You didn’t answer your phone,” James whispered after a moment, looking towards the house before looking back at him. “I’ve been thinking you were _dead_ for the last half hour and just hoping I would get here in time to put a bullet in whoever killed you.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t sure how to tell you it was a false alarm without completely freaking her out. But hey. Look.” He moved his hands up, cupped James’ cheeks and pulled him in until their foreheads touched. “Still alive and completely fine. Did you get groceries?”

Hesitantly, James’ hands came up, ran up Clint’s arms and settled over his hands. He pulled back gently, shaking his head. “I didn’t even make it to the city before you called.”

“Then why were you out? In case she asks.” Their hands were still together, though his palms were no longer pressed to James’ cheeks. Clint slowly turned his wrists until he could slot his fingers into the other man’s, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“I was… filing a FOIA request, had to do it in Chicago. Prison records for one of the subjects of your book.”

“Works for me. Let’s go inside and play nice.”

He led James inside and offered Natasha a crooked smile. “Nothin’ to carry.”

Her eyes were on the two of them and Clint realized that he was still holding James’ hand. The agent must have realized it at the same time, quickly tugged away and gave her a nod. Natasha nodded back shortly.

“Maybe I’ve overstayed my welcome…?”

“Nonsense!” Clint insisted, probably a bit too quickly. “I can, uh, make us some lunch--” not that they had much food in the house, since James hadn’t made it to the store “--and we can eat out on the ba--front porch.” The targets from firearms practice were still set up out back, better if Natasha didn’t see those and start asking questions again.

She smiled, picking up her mug and gently depositing it in the sink. “That’s generous of you, Cory, but I think I’d better head back to town anyways. It was good to get to know you.” Natasha tilted her head towards the door, her eyes on him. “Walk a lady out to her car?”

Clint glanced at James, who nodded stiffly, and backtracked to the front yard once again. He walked Natasha to her car, his cheeks already warming as soon as she turned back to look at him.

“So you two are…” She let the implication hang in the air and Clint tried to laugh it off. Not very successfully, if her stare was any indication.

“No,” he finally said, shoulders dropping involuntarily. “It’d be a little… unbalanced, given our positions.”

“Because he’s your assistant? I suppose so.”

He almost said the wrong thing, _almost_ corrected her that James was his government-assigned bodyguard. Clint had to physically bite his tongue to shut himself up. Nothing like saving her life only to get her killed with his big mouth. “He gets nervous, is all. I’m kind of accident prone, and being out here all by myself, James worries when he goes into town that he’s going to come back and find I’ve somehow slit my own throat while making a peanut butter sandwich. I wish that was an exaggeration.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “What about Steve? Isn’t he around to keep you away from the moderately sharp knives?”

“Steve, uh--” Shoot, he hadn’t thought she’d remember Steve. “He had to go back home for a--a family emergency. Taking care of some things back in New York.”

Natasha’s other eyebrow joined the first. “I thought you moved here from Chicago.”

Oh, god, he was going to get a very sweet librarian killed. Him and his mouth that moved faster than his brain. “I did. _We_ did. But Steve’s originally from New York, see, and his family still lives there, and--you know how it is, when family calls.”

Finally, her skeptical look faded. It was replaced with something else for just a flash, something cold, before Natasha was nodding. “I understand. Oh!” She pulled a phone from her back pocket, holding it up. “Do you mind if I get your number, Cory? That way I won’t surprise you if I want to come visit again.”

He pulled his phone out, finding his number there and reading it out to her quickly. “New phone,” Clint offered, shrugging slightly. “Still getting used to it.” It beeped in his hand a moment later, her number and a simple smilie face text message. Clint saved it quickly. “It was good to spend time with you, Natasha. I promise, I’ll try not to be a stranger around town.”

“And I promise I’ll try to keep the gossip about you in check. Though nothing is going to stop Mr. Wilkers from trying to start rumors that you’re ‘a bunch of crazy homos with too many guns’ out here.”

Clint snickered. “Well, every rumor has a grain of truth, you know.”

Natasha laughed as well, starting her car up. “And what’s your grain of truth, Cory?”

“I think you already know that.” He waved as she backed up and turned around, watched her car disappear down the long driveway before climbing the steps onto the porch again. James was waiting for him just inside the door, eyebrows furrowed.

“Relax. Situation completely under control. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. We should probably come up with a code for false alarms.”

James shook his head. “You should have gone into the safe room and worried about calling me later. She could have killed you.”

“But she didn’t. Listen, can I get my dressing down about this later? I’m seriously craving lunch now.” He moved into the kitchen, well aware of the eyes on the back of his head. “I think we still have peanut butter and tortillas, at least.”

“Cory… Clint.” His real name. That meant James was real serious. After a moment of quiet, James shut the front door, crossing the house and joining him in the kitchen. “Just--remember, panic room first next time.” He squeezed Clint’s shoulder, before going to the fridge. “You want the dregs of the strawberry jelly?”

“Nah, I’m gonna use the last three drips of my Grimly’s Local Honey. Jelly’s all yours.”

Tomorrow James would have to try again for groceries. Nothing would happen, everything would be fine. And if something _did_ happen, Clint would get into the panic room first. He promised himself that much.

* * *

There was a hell of a storm going on outside, and Clint was all too happy to pretend that _that_ was what had woken him up in the middle of the night, not the scream locked behind his clenched jaw. He sat up in bed, taking in slow, shuddering breaths until the last of the dream faded, then slowly swung his legs over the edge. Lightning was flashing and distant thunder was rumbling, promising more violent weather to come. The wind gusted, lashing rain against the windows. He had a moment to be grateful that they'd moved the target range into the barn a few days previous. Picking up soaked paper in a muddy field wasn’t a fun morning.

Clint stood up, shaking his damp t-shirt away from his clammy skin before pulling it over his head and tossing it towards the laundry basket. He’d go downstairs and get a drink, try to find some way to shut his brain off for another few hours of rest. Maybe Netflix.

Walking softly to not wake up James in the front bedroom, he made his way downstairs. Drink first, a glass of water to calm the last of his nerves, cement himself into waking reality instead of troubled dreams. Clint reached for the light switch in the kitchen, flipping it up and already wincing in preparation of the bright light. He frowned when nothing happened, flicking the switch down and back up.

“Power’s out,” a voice came from further in the room and he almost screamed. “Generator should kick on in a minute.”

“What the _hell_ ,” Clint managed to gasp out, spotting James across the room by the back window in another flash of lightning. “You just about gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” Not that he sounded sorry. “Storm wake you up, too?”

“Yeah… yeah, the storm did.” Clint glanced at the ceiling as a louder rumble of thunder shook the house. Lucky was still up in bed, deep in doggy slumber. _He_ could sleep through just about anything. “Was gonna put on some Netflix and chill on the couch, but I guess that’s off the table now.”

James hummed softly, a noncommittal sort of noise, then sighed. “The control room is still dark. Generator is supposed to power that on, first, then the house.”

“So what’s that mean? We’re stuck in the dark?”

Slowly, he turned away from the window, leaning on the counter. “Yeah. We’re stuck in the dark and our security system is down.”

Clint looked past him, shivering as another gust of wind screamed around the eaves. “Flashlights and candles, then. Even if security is down, no one’s going to come out here and take advantage of it in weather like this.”

“You say that, but if I was looking to… remove a problem, these are the exact circumstances I’d strike under.” James slid a drawer open, pulling out a flashlight and clicking it on. Clint winced against the light. “Harder to raise the alarm, easier to sneak in, and more time to cover my tracks.”

“Muddy tire tracks, muddy shoe prints, you’re just as blind in the dark as your target,” Clint countered, walking over and grabbing his own flashlight. “See, I watch crime TV too.”

“You watch junk TV. We’ll set up in the living room, it has the best vantage of possible approaches. Need anything from upstairs?” In the glow of their flashlights, James was smiling ever-so-slightly. “I’m stuck to you like glue until the security system comes back up.”

“Lucky’s on my blankets, so if we’re doing a couch camp out, I better raid the linen closet. Grab my pillow while I’m at it.”

It took some time, but the storm was still raging once they were set up in the living room, the lights still off. Clint curled up on the couch, watching the lightning flash out the front windows. After a minute, James took a seat in one of the nearby chairs, clicking his flashlight off. “As secure as we’re going to get.”

“Are you gonna be comfortable sleeping in a chair like that?”

James shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, come join me on the couch if you want to.” The other man was just a shadow, form lit up in flashes of lightning, which meant Clint was the same vague shadow. Which meant James couldn’t see him blushing, thank god.

The silence between them was back to the heavy, tense silences of their early days. All the progress in getting James to relax had evaporated without the security system to back him up. Clint sighed, burrowing a little further into the sheets, tugging the blanket up over his bare shoulder. Might as well try to sleep.

_Things were bad and they both knew it. Mom had gone to see her sister in Nebraska and just never come home. The shop didn’t open most days because Dad was passed out until late afternoon._

_Nights were bad._

_Clint hid under his bed while his father staggered and raged through the house, knocking things over, pulling pictures off the walls, dropping beer bottles in his wake and not caring if the glass shattered. Barney slept in a chair pressed up against the door to keep the old man out. He wouldn’t admit it, but Clint knew his older brother was holding onto his hunting knife while he slept there._

_By first light the old man would usually be passed out somewhere, and they’d creep out of their room, sneak around the kitchen making lunches from the dwindling cupboards. They’d go to school and try to pretend like things were normal. Barney had a job after school, washing dishes down at the little diner in town. If the weather was bad, Clint would go there after school and struggle through his homework in the corner. If the weather was good, he’d go to the park and abandon schoolwork in favor of finding a quiet place to get some sleep. His grades had always been bad, he was stupid like the old man said, so his teachers didn’t expect much of him. It was why he was still in sixth grade even though he was thirteen._

_“You ain’t a dumb-dumb, Clint,” Barney would tell him, checking over his homework. “Dad just tells ya that ‘cause he don’t wanna admit you’re smarter than him. Lookit this.” He pushed the math homework back, pointing. “You got all this part right, you just got sloppy at the end and flipped these two numbers. Flip ‘em back and you’ll get the right answer.”_

_He preferred the nice days. Barney hovering over his shoulder on his work break and encouraging him just made Clint frustrated. He couldn’t drop out of school until he was sixteen. It was a waiting game._

_When they got home, the old man would already be several drinks in. He’d sit in his chair with the TV blaring and ignore them while Barney tried to scrape together some sort of dinner. The boys would eat, then retreat to their room. And then it would all start again._

_Until the day there wasn’t anything left in the house to try to make into a meal. They opened and closed cupboards as quietly as possible, but the boxes were all just crumbs and there were no more cans. There was plenty of beer in the fridge, but nothing else._

_“Bastard can buy beer, but no food?” Barney huffed, slamming the fridge closed hard enough to rattle the bottles inside._

_Clint flinched, looked up on instinct to the chair in the living room that their father was passed out in--_

_The chair was empty._

_“B--” He choked on his brother’s name as the stale scent of beer washed into the room. Clint scrambled off the counter, tried to make himself small and unnoticeable as their father lurched forward. He hit the table and looked at it with disdain, shoving it aside._

_“The hell you doin’?” The words were directed at Barney, the old man’s glare still sharp. “Messin’ up my house? You need t’be taught a lesson, boy?”_

_Clint chewed his lip, his eyes widening as Barney stepped up, almost face to face with their father. He was sixteen, he’d grown up a lot in the last few years, and while the old man had hard packed muscle from years in the butcher shop, he’d definitely gone soft somewhere along the line. Soft or stupid. “Clint,” Barney said, his voice steady, “head off to school. Stop in at the diner and tell Mr. Jacobs I’m sick today.”_

_“But--”_

_“Do it, Clint.”_

_His father’s eyes slid to him, red-rimmed and narrowed. “Always protectin’ that runt, huh?”_

_The look froze him in place, locked his chest with panic, but Barney only moved to stand in front of him. “Someone has to take care of this family, and you’ve done a piss poor job so far.”_

_He’d have to get past his father to go out the front door. There was the hallway off the kitchen, the two bedrooms and the bathroom, Clint could go in there. He could hide under his bed and wait for it to be over, just like at night._

_Carefully, wary eyes on the two facing off in the kitchen, he eased towards the hall. His heart was hammering, his palms sweating, but he was almost there. Almost to the safety of his room, his bed, the shut door between them. He’d sit in the chair, just like Barney did, and hold onto the hunting knife. Just in case._

_The floor creaked behind him and Clint’s nerve broke. He bolted into the first door, slammed it behind him and leaned against it. His parents’ room, not his own, but it was a closed door._

_He ducked under the bed regardless, putting his hands over his ears as shouts and crashes rose from the kitchen. Under the bed was dusty and cramped, the sagging mattress hitting his back as Clint drew himself into a smaller ball. His nose itched, but if he scratched it, he’d have to uncover his ears and that wasn’t an option._

_He wished he had his hunting knife. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything with it, but holding it would make him feel stronger. Safer. Like how Barney holding his made Clint sure no one would come through the bedroom door at night._

_Glass shattered in the kitchen and he whined softly, squirming to get further under the bed. His arm bumped something, solid metal, and Clint looked up at it. The barrel of a gun stared back at him. Without thinking, he scrambled out from under the bed, his heart pounding harder. Always treat a gun like it’s loaded. It’d been pointed right at him._

_Barney shouted from the kitchen and heavy steps sounded in the hall. Clint ducked low next to the bed, reaching under and feeling for the gun. He really only intended to get it out of the way so he could get back under the bed, but when the door opened, Clint found the heavy weight of it in his hand, the barrel pointed at his father._

Treat every gun like it’s loaded.

Only aim at something that you’re willing to kill.

_The lessons echoed in his head as he raised his aim slightly, right at the old man’s chest. “Stop it.” His voice shook, the fine tremble running through him coming out in the words. “Just… just leave us alone.”_

_His father sneered, leaning his weight in the door. “Or what?”_

_Clint licked his lips, his thumb carefully pressing the safety off of the gun. Was it actually loaded? He’d never held the old man’s handgun before. Could it be this heavy without bullets? “Or I’ll kill you.”_

_A bark of laughter came from his father, his unsteady steps moving further into the room. “You ain’t got the nerve, runt.”_

_Sweat was breaking out on his forehead, the back of his neck. Every part of him felt heavy with dread. His vision was blurring with tears and the shaking was getting worse. “Stop right there or I swear to_ God _\--”_

_“Once a runt, always a runt. Do it, don’t be a coward.”_

The crash of the gun was loud in his ears and Clint sat up abruptly from the couch, breathing heavily. He trembled, his hands clenched into desperate fists and shoved against his mouth, trying to muffle his screams as the gun fired and the muzzle flashed and--

“Hey, hey, Cory-- _Clint_ , relax.” A hand on his arm, a voice that wasn’t from his past. Clint found himself blinking away memory, dream, whatever it had been, looking at Agent Barnes in the glow of his flashlight. Outside, the storm had picked up intensity again, thunder and lightning almost constant. “Are you okay?”

“Bad dreams,” he muttered, starting to shake harder as the tension escaped him. Without thinking, he grabbed onto James’ shirt, pulled him in a little closer. “Bad memories.”

James shifted, slowly moving from crouched next to the couch to sitting on it, tucking himself between Clint’s back and the arm. He carefully lifted a hand, hesitantly stroking Clint’s hair. “You want to tell me?”

“No.” He leaned into the comfort, closed his eyes and tried to keep his breathing even. “Steve asked me, back when you were first trying to teach me how to shoot, if I’d ever shot a gun before. And I have. I…” He sucked in a breath, his voice dropping lower. “I shot my old man. My brother took the blame for it.” The hand in his hair stroked slowly, moved down to the back of his neck and up again. Fingers scratched against his scalp and, almost without realizing it, Clint started to relax. “I was thirteen and he was sixteen. Our mom had gone to Nebraska to see her sister and just never come back. That’s what the old man said, anyways.”

“Was it true?”

Clint shrugged mildly. “I don’t think she’d have left us. And I think social services would have found her if she had. A lotta that is just a blur to me, really.” Someone had called the cops, and he’d been under the bed in his own room when they came. “They took Barney away in the back of a cop car and the county came and got me. Put me into foster care.” He laughed a little. “S’bout when I found out I’m dyslexic as hell. Old man used to say I was stupid, ‘cause he didn’t know what a learning disorder was. Used to believe him, too. Kinda funny that you guys decided being a writer was a good cover for me.”

James hummed softly, the sound vibrating from his chest into Clint’s back. “There was nothing about dyslexia in your file.”

“I dunno if I ever got diagnosed, but I finally had a teacher that didn’t just assume I was a dumb kid, and he helped me find, like, tricks and stuff. Computers helped, too. And having a routine. My foster parents were real big on education. I lived with them an extra few months after I turned eighteen, so that they could make sure I graduated high school.” Their positions had moved while Clint talked, both sideways on the couch, Clint practically in James’ lap with his back pressed firmly to the other man’s chest. A hand was still stroking his hair, James’ other arm draped loosely over the back of the couch. It was comforting and comfortable and he could feel the last remnants of terror drifting off him, even as the storm continued to raise hell outside. “So. That’s all my baggage. I guess it’s a lot to unpack, but if you wanna just throw away the whole suitcase, I’d understand.”

He could feel the puff of breath against his neck that accompanied James’ quiet laughter. “That’s a hell of a metaphor. It’s four in the morning, though, so let’s save the unpacking for another time. Think you can get some more sleep?”

“If you stay with me, yeah.” He wasn’t being cute, wasn’t trying to get a rise out of the other man. It was just honesty, unashamed and open. 

James hummed again, his fingers drifting down from Clint’s hair, skimming against his bare chest before grabbing the blanket. He pulled it up over them, settling back against the arm of the couch. Not the most comfortable sleeping position, the couch wasn’t designed for one person to sleep on it, never mind two, but Clint felt himself relaxing, his eyelids already heavy. “No more nightmares, okay?” James murmured, lips ghosting against his ear.

“No more nightmares,” Clint agreed softly, pressing in a little tighter as an arm wrapped around him.

* * *

There was still a warm body pressed to his back when Clint woke up. The sun was streaming in through the windows and at some point in the night they’d shifted position, ended up on their sides. Clint sighed in content, closing his eyes again and trying to go back to sleep. Having James so close to him… yeah, okay, he wanted to enjoy the human contact for a bit longer.

Wakefulness did bring some more awareness, and certified hottie or not, James had _terrible_ morning breath. Clint burrowed a little further into the pillow to get away from it, letting out a yelp of surprise when something cold and wet touched his neck. He opened his eyes again, looking over his shoulder just in time for Lucky to lick his face.

“Lucky, I love you, but I swear to God…” Now that there wasn’t dog breath in his face, he could smell coffee. Clint eased off the couch, leaving the dog to roll in the rumpled sheets as he meandered into the kitchen.

James passed him a steaming mug from the keurig, looking about as tired as Clint felt. He stretched and twisted his torso, taking another drink. “I think I’m too old for sleeping on the couch.”

“I feel like I got trampled,” Clint agreed, sipping his coffee and arching his sore back. “Power’s back on, huh?”

“Yeah, came back about an hour ago. Security system is up and running again. I’m going to take a look at the generator, try to figure out why it didn’t kick on last night.”

Clint finished his cup in record time, going to make himself another one. “You do a perimeter sweep already?”

“Not yet. I…” James busied himself with his coffee, but Clint could see his cheeks turning red. “Last night was kind of…” He was looking anywhere but at Clint. “If you woke up, I didn’t want--whoa, hey!” His gaze had flicked to Clint for the barest second, eyes widening in alarm.

Clint turned back to the keurig, cursing under his breath and scrambling for a second mug as the machine kept pouring out coffee, well over the rim of his first mug. He swapped them, looking forlornly at the liquid that had spilled onto the counter. “Aw, coffee, no.”

The machine gurgled to a stop with the second mug half full, and he got to cleaning up. He looked over his shoulder, giving James a quick, almost shy smile. “Thanks. For sticking around.”

James hesitated a moment, before returning the smile, looking down quickly. “It’s my job.” He put his empty coffee cup down, disappearing out the back door for his perimeter sweep.

Cuddling on the couch wasn’t part of the job. Stroking his hair and holding him while he talked about his trauma wasn’t part of the job. Staying so that he wouldn’t wake up alone wasn’t part of the job. They both knew it, but James had still done it, and Clint couldn’t ignore the little flutter in his stomach when he thought about it.

He could, however, focus on something else until the little flutter became less all-encompassing. Something productive, like cooking a nice breakfast for the two of them to enjoy when James got back. Clint moved to the fridge, getting out eggs and bacon and cheese, whistling to himself as he worked.


	5. Chapter 5

Cory Brandt had some really _weird_ Amazon recommendations. Clint wasn’t surprised by the bows and targets and hunting equipment, nor by the pet beds and dog crates--no routines meant no Chewy autoship service, but he’d still ordered Lucky some items from the site that were too bulky to transport from New York.

None of that explained the karaoke set up.

 _Just For You, Cory!_ The banner over it announced. Clint stared for longer than was strictly reasonable, his cursor hovering over the one-click buy option.

It wasn’t a _good_ idea, but it was a _fun_ idea. Without an actual job, he’d had time to discover that yes, a person could reach the end of good content on Netflix. Sure, there were seasons and seasons of TV shows to watch, but he could only space out in front of the TV for so long.

Clint clicked to purchase and waited for his package.

* * *

Clint had a funny kind of luck. He’d spill a cup of coffee on himself on the way to a date and have to rush home to change, then have a great night when he and his date accidentally wore matching shirts and laughed about it the entire time. Or he’d be innocently walking down the sidewalk and see a dog almost get hit by a car, run into the street like a damn fool to save the poor animal, and get hit himself, get a few broken bones and a friend for life.

So it was his funny kind of luck that James was picking up groceries in Chicago when the karaoke set got delivered. He thanked Mr. Wilkers with a smile, hefting the box under his arm. “Gotta have some entertainment, out here in the quiet.”

Mr. Wilkers didn’t comment, just handed him a letter as well and climbed back into his truck.

The letter was addressed to James Barnes, so Clint tossed it onto the desk in the office and got to work setting up the karaoke machine.

It wasn’t like he had ulterior motives, Clint reasoned as he watched the truck come up the driveway. Ever since the night of the thunderstorm, the power outage, when he’d dumped his baggage out for James, things had been… different between them. Quieter. James treated him like he was going to fall apart again at the smallest provocation. There hadn’t been any more firearms practice. Physical contact had been carefully avoided. They definitely hadn’t cuddled on the couch since that night.

Clint was not going to lose the progress he’d made in breaking through Agent Barnes’ professional exterior and getting to know the man underneath.

He waited until James was out of the truck to hit play on the first song, notes blasting out from the TV loud enough to get the man’s immediate attention, even from outside. James’ head snapped up to the window and Clint grinned, already into the song.

 _“Just a small town girl  
_ _Livin’ in a lonely world  
_ _She took the midnight train goin’ anywhere.”_

Clint held up the second microphone when James came inside, the words on screen lighting up yellow as they were supposed to be sung. “Your turn!” He called over the music.

“I have groceries to put away!” James shouted back, though Clint could see him fighting down a grin.

“What? I can’t hear you over--

 _A singer in a smoky room  
_ _Smell of wine and cheap perfume  
_ _For a smile they can share the night  
_ _It goes on and on and on and on.”_

“You’re crazy!” James shook his head as Clint tried to pass him the mic again, carrying brown bags into the kitchen. He was back in the living room in moments, however, sitting down on the couch and laughing at Clint’s air guitar. “Turn it down!”

“Only if you sing with me!” Clint grabbed the remote up, tucking it into his pocket and grinning. There was only one more bridge until the actual chorus.

 _“Strangers waitin’  
_ _Up and down the boulevard  
_ _Their shadows searchin’  
_ _In the night  
_ _Streetlight people  
_ _Livin’ just to find emotion  
_ _Hidin’ somewhere  
_ _In the night!”_

He drew out the word, more into the song than James’ reaction for a bare moment, until the chorus popped up on the screen.

_“Don’t stop believin’--”_

Clint almost _did_ stop believing, and singing, realizing that James was joining along with him. He stuttered over his words, shooting the other man a wide grin and continuing.

 _“Hold on to that feeling  
_ _Streetlight people  
_ _Don't stop believin'  
_ _Hold on  
_ _Streetlight people  
_ _Don't stop believin'  
_ _Hold on to that feeling  
_ _Streetlight people.”_

The song faded out and Clint finally relented to turn the volume down, dropping onto the couch next to James with a grin. “You wanna pick the next one?”

“Are you high? Where did this even come from?” He was laughing, though, genuinely amused even as he shook his head.

“Amazon.” Clint shrugged, flipping through the song selections. He paused when James made an interested noise, looking up. “See something you like?”

“Are you gonna judge my music tastes?”

“Only if they’re terrible.” He grinned, sitting back slightly. “C’mon, then. Entertain me.”

The notion of _only_ singing was abandoned after two or three songs. Clint hopped up, swaying his hips and dragging James up to dance with him to Shakira’s _Hips Don’t Lie_. He pressed in close to the other man, guiding James’ hands into his back pockets. It was the sort of move he’d use at a club, back in his twenties, and doing it in the well-lit living room while desperately trying to sing along to the music was sort of ridiculous. Still, James seemed just as into it as Clint was, slotting his leg between Clint’s thighs and leaning in close to his ear as he sang along softly.

“My turn to pick,” he whispered as the song wrapped up, pulling his hands from Clint’s pockets and grasping the backs of his thighs instead. He lifted Clint up, depositing him onto the couch and picking the song.

It was a little slower, but James carried the notes well as the song opened, his eyes darting between the screen and Clint on the couch.

 _“Closing time  
_ _Time for you to go out into the world.  
_ _Closing time  
_ _Turn the lights up over every boy and every girl.  
_ _Closing time  
_ _One last call for alcohol so finish your whiskey or beer.  
_ _Closing time  
_ _You don't have to go home but you can't stay here.”_

He moved closer as the chorus came in, his eyes staying locked on the man on the couch.

Clint swallowed, feeling warmer than his dancing really called for. There was nothing subtle about _I know who I want to take me home_ , no different message that could be read into it. James’ eyes stayed on him as the song continued, his body moving closer languidly, eerily reminiscent of a big cat stalking towards prey.

He’d let himself get eaten alive, Clint decided, settling back on the couch and spreading his legs slightly as one of James’ knees pressed onto the cushion.

 _“Closing time  
_ _Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.”_

Clint licked his lips, aware of the eyes on him, the way they tracked down to that slight motion. He reached up slowly, closing his hands on James’ shoulders and pulling him closer, inch by inch. They froze, barely a breath away, and Clint tilted his head up slightly, inviting the other man to close the distance.

For just a moment, he was sure James wasn’t going to. Sure that he’d pull away, that they’d awkwardly laugh it off. Maybe sing another song or two, probably just go make dinner. Clint’s heart was pounding, his hands wanting to shake with the fear of not knowing, wanting to hold tighter, to insist the other man close the distance.

And then James kissed him, slow and gentle, testing the waters. His eyes were open, on Clint’s, the microphone dropped from his hand to the couch. Clint parted his lips, tongue darting out once more, inviting James in further.

He watched as James’ eyes closed, felt as he inhaled. He pulled away as far as Clint’s hands on him would allow, shaking his head. “We shouldn’t…”

“Because you don’t want to?” Clint asked, eyebrows drawing together.

James shook his head more definitively. “I said we shouldn’t, not I don’t want to. It’s not right, given our positions.” He made a face as Clint grinned. “ _Circumstances_.”

“I could get on top,” Clint offered regardless, sliding his fingers further around James, up to the back of his neck. “This isn’t Stockholm Syndrome, James.”

“That would imply I’m keeping you prisoner.” James hesitated, before moving in again, kissing him gently. Chaste, his mouth staying closed as his lips brushed over Clint’s. “It’s called transference, when you redirect emotions onto someone uninvolved. It’s--”

Clint tilted his head, pressing another kiss against James’ open mouth, quick this time. “Disagree. You’re pretty involved in this.”

“That’s not what it means.” They’d shifted positions as they kissed and talked, Clint leaned back against the couch, James bracing his arms on either side of him with both knees now on the cushions, straddling Clint’s thigh. He leaned in until their foreheads touched, his hair falling around them like a curtain as Clint loosened the tie he used to keep it back. “I make you feel safe, and you’re projecting that need for security into something sexual.”

“Who doesn’t want a partner that makes them feel safe?” They’d stopped kissing, unfortunately, but they were close enough to start again. If James wanted to. Clint slid his fingers through the soft strands of James’ hair, feeling him shiver at the gentle touch.

“Quit talking me into breaking protocols, Cory.”

Clint made a face. “If you’re gonna kiss me, James, you better use my real name.”

James frowned, before leaning in and kissing him again, slow and easy. It was almost familiar, the way their lips met, the way Clint let the other man into his mouth. Exploratory, yes, but not fumbling. After a languid eternity of a few minutes, James eased back again and looked him over quickly. “Bucky.”

“Huh?”

“If I’m gonna call you Clint, you can… you can call me Bucky.” He was blushing again, cheeks going from light pink to a deeper red. “It’s what my friends call me.”

“You kiss all your friends like this, Bucky?” Clint pulled him in again, took his time getting familiar with the inside of Bucky’s mouth.

When he pulled back, Bucky shook his head. “No. Usually when I kiss my friends, they’re--”

A ringing phone cut him off and they both pulled away like they’d been caught, looking guiltily around the house. “That’s mine,” Clint sighed, going to grab his phone from the kitchen counter. He didn’t get telemarketers and Bucky was with him, so it had to be Natasha. He looked longingly back at the couch, before swiping to answer. “Hello?”

“Hey, Cory.” Natasha’s voice on the line, light and breezy. “This is really last minute, but I finally found an opportunity for you to practice your social skills.”

“You say that like I need practice.”

“You do.” Her tone was flat and he laughed in acquiescence. “The library is holding a poetry night tomorrow. You don’t have to perform, of course, but I thought you might like an invitation to come to the readings. We’re going to have some original stuff, as well as some readings of classics.”

Clint hummed, looking over his shoulder to Bucky. He was cleaning up the karaoke set, teeth worrying his lower lip. God, Clint wanted to kiss him again. “I think I can twist James’ arm into a night off. What time should we be there?”

“Social hour starts at five with snacks and drinks. Readings run from six to seven, ish. After that will probably be more socializing, but if you’re looking for the bare minimum show up close to six and leave when the readings are done.” Natasha laughed softly. “But if you do the bare minimum I’ll judge you. There’s a line between introvert and recluse, Cory, and you’re creeping onto the other side of it.”

He huffed out his own laugh. “I will have you know that I spoke a full sentence to Mr. Wilkers today. I’m plenty extroverted.”

“Yeah? And how long has it been since you spoke to anyone _else_? Besides James.”

“Um.” She had him there and they both knew it, but he was happy to play dumb. “When’s the last time you called me?”

“My point has been made. Five pm tomorrow at the library. I expect to see you both there.” Natasha hung up and Clint dropped his phone back onto the counter, rejoining Bucky in the living room.

“Natasha is insisting we go be social in town. Poetry reading at the library. Five tomorrow evening.” He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck lightly. “I think it might be fun.”

“Getting bored of me?”

Clint reached out, caught Bucky by the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him in. He kissed him, quick and soft, smiling as he leaned back again. “Not at all. You want dinner?”

A funny sort of luck, getting a random Amazon recommendation for a karaoke machine leading to finding the real person under Agent Barnes’ professionalism. Clint was used to his funny sort of luck, gladly took it in stride for the rest of the evening, as they cooked together and shared touches that were too familiar to be anything but intimate.

"Oh," Clint remembered, just before they went their separate ways to sleep. "You got a letter today. I put it in the office."

Bucky looked over his shoulder, heaving a sigh as he descended the stairs again. "Thanks for telling me _after_ I got upstairs, jerk."

"You're welcome!" Clint grinned, fleeing to his bedroom to get changed. Lucky had finally re-emerged from his hiding place once the singing stopped, was already curled up on Clint's bed waiting for him.

He didn't expect Bucky to be in the doorway when he came out of the bathroom, holding the letter and frowning. Clint moved closer, glancing at the paper. "Wanna share?"

"I..." Bucky crumpled the paper, shaking his head. "Classified."

"You had your tongue in my mouth earlier, you don't get to say that anymore."

"I do if it's true." Still, he laughed, leaned in and kissed Clint again. "It's from DHS. I put in for a transfer to an office job just before your case came up. My evals were saying that I wasn't going to be fit for field work again and I was going... a little stir crazy waiting. They had tried to get me before the whole terrorist mess and I figured that going to them would be a sure thing." Bucky shook his head. "But they put me on a waitlist, then your case came up, and now... Well, now they say the job is mine. If I want it."

"Do you want it?"

He looked conflicted, glanced between the crumpled paper in his hand and Clint's face, his teeth working his lip. "I did in June. Not as sure anymore. It's an immediate opening, so I'd be leaving my current assignment." _Leaving you_ , he left unspoken. Clint nodded anyways.

"Sleep on it. Call them tomorrow after the poetry thing." He reached up, cupped Bucky's cheek gently and pulled him into another kiss. "And if you take it, stay safe."

They parted ways soon after, to their own bedrooms. Clint curled up on the section of the large bed Lucky wasn't currently occupying, his thoughts racing. It wasn't just that Bucky was attractive, it wasn't just that getting to know him was a distraction from the stress of being in witness protection. No matter what the other man said, Clint wasn't projecting (much, probably). He'd liked Steve from the word go, but that wasn't the same as the way being near Bucky made his heart race. And it had taken time, this wasn't adrenaline turning his thoughts into soup, or however that worked. 

He'd been sincere on the couch. Bucky made him feel safe, and anyone would want a partner that could do that. Not just safe from hitmen, but safe from himself. Protected from the nightmares that chased him, no matter how far he fled.

Clint rolled over with a groan, squeezing his eyes closed and fighting to shut his brain up and get some sleep.

* * *

_It started with the phone calls._

_He was used to getting unknown numbers, more than known callers really. Telemarketers that he’d send to voicemail, messages that he’d delete without listening. The calls seemed to ramp up in the days after he’d spoken to police, but then again, spam calls seemed to operate on a cycle._

_“Ugh, shut_ up _,” Clint muttered to his phone, swiping to ignore the call as he stood in line at the coffee shop. It buzzed with a voicemail a minute later and he swiped that notification away as well. He’d delete it later._

 _His phone chimed with a text message and Clint rolled his eyes. Automatic payment alert, he_ knew _that, his bank didn’t need to--_

Unknown Number  
Green’s not really your color.

_Clint looked around with a frown, glancing down at the t-shirt he wore. What the hell? Was someone messing with him?_

_Another text message chime. His hands were starting to shake as he looked at it._

Unknown Number  
The next time your phone rings, you better answer, Clint.

_He scanned the coffee shop, but it was impossible--there were a dozen people in there, all of them on their phones. None of them were familiar._

_Clint got out of line and went home._

_The next two unsolicited calls he got were robotic telemarketers telling him the warranty on the car he didn’t own was about to expire. Clint started to relax. Someone had been messing with him the other day, that was all._

_He clipped Lucky’s leash on and took the dog out for a walk in the nearby park. Friday afternoons the park became a dog playground rather than a human one and he took Lucky there every week._

_Clint sat on a bench while his dog ran around sniffing other dog’s butts and chasing tennis balls, idly spinning his phone in his hand. He jumped slightly as it started buzzing, looking at the unfamiliar number before rolling his eyes and swiping to ignore._

_A moment later, the same number called again. “Screw off,” Clint muttered, swiping to ignore it once more. “Just send me a text like a normal human.”_

_He didn’t get a text alert, and a quick check showed the number hadn’t left a voicemail. Clint pushed it to the back of his mind, whistling for Lucky. It was time to go home and get started on his work shift. He had to put in forty hours a week, it didn’t particularly matter_ when _those hours went in._

_Sunday’s pizza delivery wasn’t the normal guy. Clint started to ask, the words choking in his throat when the delivery guy shoved his way inside._

_“What the_ hell _\--”_

_“You think you’re difficult to find?” The man shoved him up against the wall and Clint let out a panicky wheezing breath. He tried to draw in more air to start screaming and a hand clamped over his mouth. “Here’s the deal, Clint. You call the police, you say that you didn’t see anything, and you get to live. If that doesn’t happen, I come back here and make you wish you were dead.” He slammed Clint back against the wall again, before walking out, leaving the door wide open._

_Clint was still pressed against the wall and shaking when the_ actual _pizza guy showed up with his order. He couldn’t even bring himself to make good natured complaints about being overcharged._

_Of course, the police didn’t believe him when he said he hadn’t actually seen anything. It didn’t take long for them to get the truth out of him. He’d been threatened. He was getting strange phone calls._

_He was probably being stalked by at least one of the killers._

_Clint sat in the detective’s office, trying and failing not to have a breakdown. He was going to die. Slowly and painfully._

_“Clint? There’s some men that you should talk to.” Detective Odinson gave him a gentle smile, nodding the two men with him into the room. “They’re with witness protection.”_

_The big blonde one shook his hand with a nod. “Agent Steve Rogers, this is my partner Agent James Barnes. We understand the situation you’re in isn’t a good one, but we could really use your continued cooperation. We’ll do everything in our power to keep you safe.”_

_They showed him photographs and with a shaking finger, Clint pointed to the man that had come into his apartment. Rogers and Barnes exchanged raised eyebrows._

_“You’re positive?” Barnes asked, tapping his finger against the picture. “This is the man who came into your apartment?”_

_“He’s also the one who I saw on the webcam,” Clint nodded, barely able to look at the photo. It was a mugshot, but just a glance and he’d seen the same murderous glint in those dark eyes as he’d seen on camera and in person. “He came into my apartment last night.”_

_“I’ll get this to Coulson,” Rogers said, picking up the picture and walking out the door._

_Clint looked to Barnes, frowning. "Who is he?"_

_"A thug named Brock Rumlow. He's been arrested before, but we've never made anything major stick. We've suspected he was connected to organized crime for a while now." Barnes picked up a manilla folder._ _“Do you recognize any of the others?” He asked, laying out another spread of photographs._

_Some were mugshots like the first guy, some seemed to be from surveillance. Clint had a slightly easier time looking at those, and after some consideration, he tapped one of the surveillance ones. “This guy. Do you know if he’s taller than the other guy?”_

_Barnes nodded. “He is.”_

_“I think he was the other one in the house. I think his name is Jack or Jake or something? The first one told him to make the scene look like a robbery before he noticed the webcam.”_

_Slowly, Barnes put the pictures away, only leaving out the one Clint had identified. He looked up as Rogers came back, shaking his head just slightly. “Is this what I think it is?”_

_“Probably. Clint, I talked to my boss, and we think the best option for you is a full identity burn. We’ll arrange an accident for your current identity so that the people after you think you’re already dead. We’ll relocate you and create a new identity for you. These men are dangerous and what you saw has painted a pretty big target on your back. Agent Barnes and I will keep you safe. No matter what.”_

_He wasn’t even allowed to protest it. Two days later, he was in a car with the two agents, on his way out of New York and into the life of Cory Brandt._

_Whoever that was supposed to be._

Clint woke up in gray pre-dawn, a cold chill racing down his spine, his pillow wet with sweat. Echoes of voices in his head, words that kept his dreams uneasy. _Make you wish you were dead._

He slid out from under the blankets, trying not to disturb Lucky where the dog slept. It was fine, it was safe, but--but maybe he’d sleep better with Bucky closer.

As quietly as he could, Clint slipped into Bucky’s room, crawled into bed with him and gently pressed himself to the other man’s back. He felt Bucky tense, pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Just me.”

“Nightmares?” Bucky asked, finding Clint’s arm in the dark and pulling it around his waist.

“Yeah…”

“Wh’time is it?”

“Early.” Clint settled in more snugly against him, breathing in the scent of Bucky’s shampoo. “G’back to sleep. I jus’ needed…” He yawned, not bothering to finish the sentence.

Sleep came back slowly, darkness that overtook the brightening morning. Peaceful rest not plagued by unsettling dreams for the first time in too long.

Clint could get used to having Bucky at his side.

* * *

A poetry reading at the library was no Met Gala, but Clint still buttoned up his flannel and wore jeans that didn’t have holes in them. Bucky put on slacks and a collared shirt, drove them into town in the pick-up just before five.

Natasha was at the door of the library, greeting people as they came in, looking city-chic in a black skirt and red blouse. She shook Clint’s hand when he walked up, giving him a warm smile and a quick wink. “Good, you’re doing more than the bare minimum.”

“I’d hate for you to think I was unneighborly,” he agreed solemnly, gazing past her at the dozen or so people already inside. “Where’s the food? Is there coffee?”

Natasha snickered, pointing into the library. “Food and coffee in the lounge. Think you can make nice, or should I introduce you to someone?”

He glanced at Bucky, shrugging and grinning crookedly. “If I’m not talking to someone besides James in fifteen minutes, come socialize me. Deal?”

“Deal. Your timer starts now, Cory. Yours too, James.”

They headed inside as Natasha greeted the next arriving guests, making their way towards the appetizers and drinks. Bucky glanced around, his eyebrows furrowing for a moment. “You see the--”

“Exits, front door, emergency to the left between the bathrooms, second emergency through the office. I see them. Relax, we’re here to have a good time.” He picked up a napkin with a mini quiche on it, passing it to Bucky before grabbing his own. There was indeed coffee, though one quick sip from his cup had him almost spitting it out. Decaf. He subtly dumped the cup in the trash, to Bucky's amusement, before finding a spot near the wall to stand. Clint tried to make himself look inviting, wondered how well it would work with Bucky hovering so close by.

Natasha found him fifteen minutes--and six mini quiches--later, dragging a middle-aged, bespectacled man behind her. She planted the man in front of Clint, her gaze on him judgmental for just a moment. “Bruce, this is Cory Brandt, the writer that moved into the old Bishop place, and his assistant, James. Cory, James, this is Dr. Bruce Banner. Why don’t you three get to know each other?” She turned the judgmental look to Bruce, before turning on her heel and walking away.

“So, you’re her other pet project?” Bruce asked, smiling sheepishly.

“Guess so. You’re a doctor?”

“I’m a vet, but I have my doctorate.” He laughed gently, a little self-depreciative. “In Natasha’s words, I’m great with animals and terrible with people.”

Clint snickered. “Well, you’re one-up on me. Only animal that likes me is Lucky, my dog.”

Bruce’s face lit up. “You have a dog? Do you have pictures?”

He could feel Bucky’s disapproving look as he pulled out his phone, but whatever. He’d been forbidden from downloading apps to entertain himself, he was going to fill the memory card with pictures and videos of Lucky. “ _Do_ I.”

It probably wasn’t the sort of socializing Natasha wanted, but Clint and Bruce spent almost thirty minutes talking, first exclaiming over Lucky, then with Bruce regaling him with stories of different animals he took care of during his training and at his own clinic. By the time cocktail hour was over, even Bucky seemed more relaxed, focused on Bruce’s stories rather than watching everyone else in the lounge.

“If I could have everyone’s attention,” Natasha’s voice called over the general din of the crowd, her hands clapping for quiet. “We can move to the main library for the readings.”

There were chairs set up, a miniature auditorium crowded into the open library space, with a microphone at the front. Bruce shuffled to a far corner of the room and Clint glanced to Bucky, raising an eyebrow. “Seating preference?”

Bucky looked around, nodding to chairs near the edge of the middle row. “Best sightlines, easiest escape.”

“Thought you’d have one.” Still, he walked along easily, let Bucky in first before taking a seat.

Most of the readers weren’t half bad, in Clint’s opinion. He’d never been one for poetry, but those that stood up and read had a decent cadence to them. Original works and readings of famous poems alternated, a few nervous high school students stepping up to the mic to remind him that this was an extremely amateur night.

Bucky nudged his arm lightly about halfway through the readings, his voice pitched low enough not to disturb those around them. “We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

Bucky’s fingers moved and Clint gazed around, spotting the people milling about, still standing. One by the emergency exit between the bathrooms, two by the front door. Unease coiled in his stomach, though none of the men looked familiar. “You sure?”

“They showed up after cocktail hour and planted themselves at the exits. One of the ones by the door keeps checking his phone and looking around the room.”

Clint nodded shallowly, his eyes darting about. He found Natasha, locked his gaze with hers and hoped that she could read his mind. To Bucky, he murmured, “hold your stomach, tilt your head down.”

Mind reader or not, Natasha quietly crossed the room, smoothly crouching down beside his chair. “Problem, Cory?”

“Small one. James decided to eat a bunch of those delicious mini quiches, even though he’s lactose intolerant.” He heard Bucky cough beside him and try to turn it into a groan. “He’s got the cheese cramps, but I hate to disrupt your night. Is there somewhere subtle we can sneak out from?”

Natasha frowned, looking from him to Bucky before standing up again. “This way,” she whispered, leading the two of them to the library office. She unlocked the door for them, opening it up and nodding. “There’s an exit back here, as well as a restroom if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Bucky grumbled, rubbing his stomach. As soon as she’d shut the door behind them, he turned on Clint and hissed, “ _cheese cramps_?”

“It worked, didn’t it? Come on, let’s get to the truck and get home.” He stepped a little closer to Bucky, his face serious. “Best case scenario it’s nothing and tomorrow Natasha lectures me for being a recluse.”

“Worst case scenario…” Bucky started, but Clint leaned in, kissed him gently.

“There’s no worst case scenario, because you’re here to protect me. Isn’t that right, Agent Barnes?”

His back straightened a little and Bucky nodded, wrapping an arm over Clint’s shoulders. “Let’s go.”

No one was in the parking lot, the truck just as they left it. Bucky gave it a quick sweep regardless while Clint watched the doors of the library, before the two of them got in and started for home. The drive wasn’t long, but it was quiet, tension still in the air. Bucky may have been the one to notice the people at the exits, but something about them had gotten Clint’s wind up, too. He didn’t recognize them--they weren’t the two that had killed Mary Parker--but… Bucky was right. The one that kept checking his phone was especially worrying. If they had a picture of Clint, no fake identity would help him.

Pulling up to the farmhouse was a relief, but it was--off. It hit Clint a second before Bucky slammed on the brakes, both of them dead still in the truck. Clint swallowed audibly as Bucky cursed under his breath.

“Security lights should have come on by now.”

“Stay in the truck, Clint.” Bucky reached over, opened the glovebox and pulled out a handgun. He loaded it in the near dark, reaching up to turn off the dome light before opening his door.

The seconds ticked by, an eternity between each one, as Bucky made his way to the house, illuminated by the truck’s headlights. Clint sat up straight in his seat, afraid to even blink, his heart pounding in his ears. He watched as Bucky mounted the porch steps, as he reached for the front door and gave it a light push. It swung open easily and fear plummeted Clint’s stomach. They’d locked that door. They _always_ locked that door.

He reached for the door handle when Bucky went inside, even though he’d been told to stay in the truck. Just in case… Just in case.

There was a flash inside, a muffled coughing sound that was more familiar than he wanted it to be. Across the still evening, Bucky’s voice reached him even from inside.

“Clint! Run!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyy the boys finally kissed! It only took me 26,000 words to get there!
> 
> Also I refuse to apologize for the cliffhanger.
> 
> Also also, it's my friend WeeglyFeesh's birthday! I wrote her a fic, it'll be on my page later if you'd like to check it out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for animal injury in this chapter. More details with spoilers in the end notes.

_“Clint! Run!”_

For the first time in what felt like ages, he blinked.

Too many questions raced through his mind: _How many? Where? Who shot? Was Bucky hurt? What about Lucky? Run where?_

When his eyes opened again, a fraction of a fraction of a second later, he was moving.

Turn off the headlights. Get out of the truck, leave the door open. Stay low. Clint ducked into the remnants of the summer’s hay, stiff grasses rustling as he moved.

He could hear shouting voices, but there were no more gunshots. Somewhere further away, a dog was barking.

The front door banged open and shut, a voice carrying across the chilly evening. “Check the truck.” A voice that was too familiar, a voice he'd heard in his nightmares.

Clint dropped low and slowed down, his eyes adjusting to the shadows, spotting two that peeled away from the house. One moved to the truck, became slightly more distinct in the starlight. The other started towards the field he was in.

His heart was pounding hard enough to put red around the edges of his vision, and his mind flashed through the options. Panic room, he’d have to get past them to get inside. Gun safe, same problem. His bow and quiver were on the back porch. A twenty-five pound draw was not enough to effectively kill a man at range, but with an arrow in the right place, it’d slow one down. And a bow was a lot quieter than a gun.

Swallowing as much of his panic as he could, Clint got moving again. The air was still, every movement he made rustled the grasses and alerted his position. And Bucky--

He couldn’t think about Bucky.

Once he was at the side of the house, Clint broke cover and ran, keeping low, not daring to look behind him. His shoes pounded across the soft grass of the backyard, steps only slowing when he reached the porch. The third step squeaked. He skipped over it, crouching down and grabbing his bow and quiver of practice arrows, finally looking around.

A half-turn towards the house got him a face full of dog, Lucky whining softly and licking his face. Clint stroked the dog’s fur gently, ruffling it and shushing him. There was a frayed rope tied to Lucky’s collar, keeping him on the back porch, and Clint untied it quickly. “Easy, boy, easy…” he whispered, going still as voices carried back from the front of the house.

“Brock. Truck’s empty.”

“Damn, he must have run when we shot Barnes. Let’s do a sweep, Jack, we’ll find him.”

“You sure he even came back this way? Maybe Barnes took him to a safe house in town.”

“Nah, Jasper said they left together. They got here too fast to have stopped somewhere else. We'll find him and make him wish he was dead.”

_“I don’t know who you are, buddy, but when I find you, I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.”_

_"...come back here and make you wish you were dead.”_

Fear turned his veins to ice. If he’d had any doubt before, it was gone. At least one of the men hunting for him was Mary Parker’s killer. His stalker. The whole reason he'd gone into hiding in the first place.

The back door was still locked when Clint tried the handle. He cursed softly, making an aborted effort to get Lucky into the dog door. He froze when a light swept across the back yard from the side, the beam of a flashlight searching for him.

They were going to find him if he stayed still. Clint took a breath, sending up a prayer to whoever might be listening before bolting off the porch and across the yard.

His footsteps pounded towards the barn and he was almost there, almost in the slight security of the shadows, when a voice shouted behind him.

“Hey!”

The flashlight painted his shadow against the barn and Clint ducked and rolled to the side without a second thought, tucked himself behind one of the berms they’d built for the gun range. A shot rang out in the night, dirt and wood chips exploding over his head. He scrambled on hands and knees away from it, single-minded focus on the barn.

More barking, this time much more aggressive, mixed with growls and snarls. He’d never heard Lucky _snarl_ before, not even when he’d slipped his leash and gone chasing after squirrels. One of the men yelled, the light from his flashlight sweeping crazily across the yard. The shout was cut off, the sound turning to a gurgle that Clint _really_ didn’t want to think about as the flashlight’s beam stilled, pointed in a random direction.

Lucky was still snarling, still barking, but his noises stopped with a yelp as another shot rang out. Clint flinched, risking looking up and back, seeing his dog lying on the ground in the beam of a flashlight.

“Damn mutt,” the one holding the flashlight muttered, sweeping the beam over briefly to where something lay in the grass, bloody and--Clint looked away. “Shoulda shot you when we got here.”

He wasn’t sure, exactly, what switched in him. One moment it was fear, was panic, was _run live run_ in his mind. The next second was a fury so deep it became eerie calm. Clint stood up, uncaring that he’d made himself an easy target, and drew an arrow from his quiver. He nocked it, pulled back the bow string, and took aim at the flashlight. Less than ten yards away, an easy target.

“You shot my dog.” The words were clear in the still night, the voice hardly sounding like his own. Cold, calculated, his aim twitching up and over just slightly.

The arrow loosed and even on a twenty-five pound draw, even with a practice arrow, it was enough. He heard it sink into his target, heard the man make an abortive choking noise as his flashlight fell to the ground. His gun fired twice more, wild shots that went into the air, before he collapsed.

Clint broke the little cover he’d had, running to Lucky and kneeling beside him, stroking the dog’s head as he whined softly. “Shh, no, no, you’re okay, you’re okay. You’re a _good boy_ , Lucky, and you’re gonna be just fine, I promise.” All the cold fury had left him, he was shaking and crying as he pulled out his phone. He needed to check on Bucky, he needed to make sure the three from the library weren’t coming, he needed to do _so many_ things.

He called Natasha.

* * *

It was a hell of a mess to clean up. 

Clint didn’t want to deal with any of it, and fortunately for him, there were people to sweep in and take over.

Natasha had come when he’d called, had brought Bruce and an ambulance and the county sheriff. They’d loaded Bucky into the ambulance (unconscious and bleeding but stable), loaded Lucky into the truck (much worse off, if the look on Bruce’s face was an indication), and then the sheriff had started asking Clint questions.

Miracle of miracles, though, Natasha had stepped in. She’d spoken to the sheriff, low and serious, while Clint sat on the porch and stared at nothing. Someone had come along and turned the power back on to the farmhouse, security lights illuminating the yard like daytime. More cars arrived and took the bodies out back away with them. Eventually, all but one of the cars had cleared.

Someone put a warm mug in his hands and Clint took a drink, almost spitting it back out. “What the _hell_ is that?”

“Herbal tea, you should have more of it.” Natasha sat down next to him with her own mug, her hand touching his knee gently. “Is there anyone else you should call?”

“Steve, probably, but I don’t know if his number is still good.”

“Cory--”

“Clint,” he interrupted, sighing. “My name’s Clint. I’m not a writer, I’m a tech support worker who witnessed a murder and ended up in witness protection. We moved out here so that Steve and Bucky could keep me safe.”

“I thought something was strange about you. Call Steve, see if he can send someone out here. If not, I’ll bring you back to my place in town and keep an eye on you.” She was taking it in stride, and her calm acceptance, as well as the herbal tea, was helping. He was pretty sure that his hands shaking again was a good thing, even if it meant spilling hot tea into his lap.

“They were going to kill me, Natasha. They killed her and I saw it and they were here to kill me. God, and _Bucky_ \--if he’s not okay--”

“They’ll take care of him at the hospital.”

“He shot my dog,” he whispered, voice hollow. “And I just… I shot him in the throat with an _arrow_.”

“You were defending yourself.”

“This is the second time I’ve killed someone.” He laughed, a little hysterical. “And this time there’s no one to take the blame for me.”

Natasha squeezed his knee, staying silent. Slowly, Clint got himself back under some sort of control, wiping a hand against his eyes.

“What am I supposed to tell Steve?”

“I’d start with the fact that you’re alive.”

He turned to her, frowning. “How are you so calm about this?”

Natasha smirked. “I wasn’t always a small town librarian, you know. Let’s just say that I’m… familiar with your situation from at least one side of it.” She patted his leg a little more firmly. “Now will you _please_ call Steve? If he hears about this before he hears from you, he’ll probably start thinking you’re dead.”

Clint laughed, only slightly less hysterical than before, and pulled out his phone. “Fine, fine.” He held down speed dial 1, swallowing his nerves.

The true sign of an introvert, he thought as the phone rang. Making a phone call was more nerve-wracking than facing down a man with a gun and plans to kill him. Maybe Natasha wasn’t too far off when she called him a recluse.

“Rogers,” Steve’s voice on the line eased the tightness in his chest, just a little.

“Steve, it’s Clint. Um, they found me and they shot Bucky but I’m okay and they’re dead but there might be more and I could really use some back-up out here.” He rushed the words out, waiting as tense silence came over the phone.

Finally, Steve spoke, his words measured. “Bucky, huh?” He pushed on before Clint could correct himself. “I’ll get in touch with someone in Chicago, send him your way. Agent Sam Wilson. We’ll relocate you if we have to. What’s your situation right now?”

It was easy to answer Steve’s questions, to follow his simple instructions. By the time Clint hung up the phone, he was actually feeling calm enough to go inside. Not quite able to sleep, but at least able to sit on the couch instead of sitting out on the front porch.

It was a start.

* * *

Laughter was the last thing he expected to hear from a hospital room. Clint’s steps stuttered beside Agent Wilson, his eyes darting to the door of the room. Surely he’d heard wrong?

Taking a slow breath, he stepped inside, fighting down the urge to run to where Bucky lay in the hospital bed. He was sitting up, a rolling table with a tray of food on it over his lap, his phone propped up on the corner of it. As Clint stepped inside, Bucky was talking.

“...like _that_ , Steve. God, you’re so nosey. We just--” he cut himself off, looking up at the two in the room. “I gotta go.”

“Oh, is your _boyfr_ \--”

Bucky hung up his phone and tossed it onto the blanket beside him, pushing the table slightly out of the way--all with his right hand. His cheeks were red, his teeth working his lower lip over as he looked at Clint. “Hey. You’re okay.”

“Fine and dandy. Are you?” Clint took a seat in the chair beside the bed, scooting it slowly closer and giving Bucky a critical look over. He didn’t look too bad off, except for his left arm, which was bandaged up and held in a sling.

“Well, I got shot, so…”

“Excuses, excuses.” Agent Wilson shook his head, reaching over and clapping Bucky’s right shoulder gently. “Glad you’re okay, man.”

“Oh, god, Steve sent _you_ to take over? I am so sorry you’ve had to deal with him, Clint.”

Agent Wilson huffed, pulling his hand back. “You’re lucky I have a moral compass that tells me not to beat up people in hospital gowns, Barnes.”

“You are a paragon of morality, Wilson.” Bucky rolled his eyes, before making an indignant squawking noise as Agent Wilson grabbed up his lunch tray. “I wasn’t done with my pudding!”

“You are now. I’m going to take this back to the cafeteria.” He bowed out before Bucky could keep protesting, and Clint exhaled slowly.

Bucky’s gaze tracked to him, his right hand twitching over, palm open and inviting. “Hey…”

“You got shot,” Clint whispered, taking the offered hand, squeezing it gently. “You got shot because of _me_.”

“That’s my job, Clint. It’s okay.” Bucky squeezed his hand back, pulled him in gently. “ _Are_ you okay? Steve called earlier, said you sounded kind of… not okay last night.”

He didn’t want to think about how _he_ was doing. He wanted to turn the clock back and have never gone to the library. No one would have been able to sneak onto the property if they’d _been_ there, and then Bucky would be okay, and Lucky would be… would be…

He felt his throat trying to close with emotion, felt his eyes burning with tears. Clint leaned in until his forehead rested on Bucky’s uninjured shoulder, his body shaking with sobs. “They shot Lucky.”

Bucky sucked in a breath, carefully wrapping his arm around Clint. “Is he…?”

“I don’t know. Bruce is supposed to call Natasha but he hasn’t and I don’t know what I’m gonna _do_ without him and…” His words were fast and muffled, his sobs growing as Bucky rubbed his back. “And I was so scared that I’d lose you, too.”

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Lips pressed to the top of his head, Bucky’s voice warm and close. “I’m sorry. I should have done a better job for you.”

Clint hiccuped, sitting back just a little and wiping his eyes. He’d spent most of the night alternating between semi-hysterical crying jags and nearly catatonic staring at the wall. He hadn’t really slept and it was catching up with him. “I killed the man that killed Mary Parker. Recognized his voice.”

Bucky stroked his cheek, nodding slowly. “We have, uh, professionals you can talk to about that. If you want to.”

That at least got a weak laugh from him. “What, you don’t want me to just keep dumping my baggage on you in the middle of the night?”

Gently, slowly, Bucky drew him in closer, kissing him softly. “If you want to talk to me about it, I’ll listen.”

He choked on another burst of emotion, pulling back and grabbing some tissues, mopping his face up. Clint looked to the window, trying to get himself under control. “I wanna--when this is over and we’re not--do you think we could… maybe get coffee together sometime?”

The quiet of the room was heavy, drawing out so long that Clint started to feel suffocated by it. He turned back to Bucky, ready to say never mind, to take it back, the words dying on his tongue at the other man’s smile.

“I’d like that. I know a place in Brooklyn.”

Slowly, Clint took a seat again, reaching over and holding Bucky’s hand. He was exhausted and overly emotional and really, he probably looked like a mess, but Bucky was holding his hand and giving him a warm smile. Clint opened his mouth, snapping it shut again as his phone started buzzing in his pocket.

He fumbled it out, swiping to answer the facetime call, his face lighting up as Lucky filled the screen. “Lucky!” Clint shouted, bouncing excitedly in his chair. The dog looked worse for the wear, a bandage around his head covering one of his eyes, but his tail started wagging when he heard Clint’s voice.

“Your dog’s got a fitting name,” Bruce said from behind the camera, his hand reaching out and stroking Lucky’s head gently. “The bullet missed his brain stem by about four centimeters. His right eye is gone and he’s probably going to have some cognitive difficulties moving forward, but he’s alive and judging by how fast his tail is going, he’s happy to see you.”

“Bruce, I… I can’t thank you enough, you--he--” And he was crying again, gross snuffling, snotty, sobbing crying. Bucky held tissues out to him and Clint took them, wiping up his face. “If you ever need anything from me, it’s done, I swear.”

“I was just doing my job, Clint. How are you? How’s James?”

“We’re alive!” Bucky called and Clint turned the camera, flipped it to him in the hospital bed. “Oh, god, Clint, don’t put me on camera.”

“Better you than my gross crying face.” Still, he flipped the camera back, his eyes locked on Lucky. The dog’s tail had slowed down, his visible eye closing as he laid his head down. “It’s okay, Lucky. You take a nap. You’re _such_ a good boy, the _best_ boy, I’m gonna buy you _all_ the treats when you come home.”

He chatted with Bruce for a few more minutes, but Clint could feel the crash of relief coming up on him. After one more look at Lucky--asleep but _alive_ , all he could ask for--he hung up, turning to Bucky in his hospital bed.

“I…” He shook his head, skipping the explanation and just climbing into the bed with Bucky. It was a tight fit, required some rearranging and careful movement to not jostle Bucky’s bandaged arm, but Clint settled himself in, resting his head on the other man’s chest. Bucky held him close, stroking his hair gently.

“Get some sleep. You look exhausted.” He swallowed, leaning down and speaking closer to Clint’s ear. “And I’ll sleep better with you near me, knowing you’re safe.”

He nodded, closing his eyes and finally, _finally_ relaxing, only barely aware of Agent Wilson coming back to the room. Clint didn’t care how he looked, how inappropriate it probably was. He needed this. And judging from the way Bucky’s arm tightened around him, the agent did too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for animal injury. One of the bad guys shoots Lucky, but the dog survives. He loses an eye, however. None of this is graphic in its description.


	7. Chapter 7

He was wearing his inconspicuous sunglasses and the woman at the coffee shop was still staring at him like she’d seen a ghost. Clint pushed them up into his hair, grinning. “Wanda, you still work here?”

“Clint? What are you doing here? Someone said you were dead!” She huffed, grabbing a cup and starting to mix up his old usual. Almost a year since he’d gone into hiding and she still remembered, _that_ was why he always tipped her well.

“People tried, but I’m harder to kill than you’d think. So’s this guy.” He nodded down to Lucky at his side, the dog leaning into him a little more heavily than before. Lucky liked to keep on Clint’s left, use his leg as a guide for where he couldn’t see anymore. “Got any treats for him? He saved my life, you know.”

She smiled and shook her head, popping two doggie biscuits into a bag and passing it to him along with his coffee. “It’s good to have you back, Lucky. And your owner, I guess.”

Clint waved goodbye as he left, meandering down the sidewalk. The old neighborhood, the old pizza place, the old park--the old life. He wasn’t quite back to it full time, but he was close.

For today, though, he was on to a new part of his life. He and Lucky headed to the subway, crossing the river into Brooklyn. His apartment had been sold after his “death” and while Clint _could_ have moved back to the lower east side, he’d found a reason to look for a place in Brooklyn instead. More than one reason, really.

The farmer’s market was a short walk from the subway station, the ebb and flow of New York crowds finally starting to feel less claustrophobic. He’d gotten used to being a country boy, to clean air and wide open spaces, to few if any human voices around. Still, at least part of him had been ready to reassimilate into city life, had held onto the ways to carve out a space for himself in a crowd.

Clint stopped at the butcher first, bought a good sized beef bone for Lucky to gnaw on. The dog deserved every treat he got, as far as Clint was concerned. If it wasn’t for Lucky, he’d be dead.

With that done, he settled at a table, sipping his coffee and people watching. Lucky laid at his feet, content to gnaw on the bone for a while. Chasing squirrels in the park had lost its appeal to him, but Clint didn’t mind the slower pace his dog traveled at now.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, grinning at Natasha’s face on the screen before he swiped to answer.

“Nat, hey!”

“Hey, Clint. How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good. How are things at the library?”

“Well…” Mirth in her voice, amusement that probably came at his expense. “Quiet as ever, but there’s exciting news in town. Someone moved into the old Bishop place. Got it at a steal after that strange writer disappeared, according to Marty.”

Clint laughed, shaking his head. “Did they put your wind up?”

“A family with two kids and three dogs living in a rambling old farmhouse? Not at all. They aren’t nearly as suspicious as a writer and his two assistants.”

“Will anyone ever be?”

“I doubt it. Our small town can only handle one exciting thing a century, you know."

He didn’t know a lot about Natasha’s pre-librarian life, with her either unable or unwilling to disclose and him not inclined to push, but he trusted her instincts. He trusted her ability to read people.

He also hated that ability, as conversation quickly turned. “You’ve got a lot of background noise, are you out?”

“I’m at the Brooklyn farmer’s market. What can I say, I miss that aspect of small town life.” He tried to laugh it off, but he knew he was doomed.

“Uh-huh, and I’m sure that’s the _only_ reason you’re there…”

“Nat, I’m not _stalking_ him. I’m people watching. For a specific person.”

“Stalker,” she sing-songed, laughing gently. “I’ll leave you to it. Tell him I said hi.”

He flushed, hanging up on her and sitting back. Lucky sat up from the ground and rested his head on Clint’s knee, pulling him out of his pout. “It’s not stalking, right, boy?”

“Well, it might be, if you’re looking for someone besides the guy you agreed to meet here,” a new voice cut in and Clint looked up, smiling as Bucky sat down at the table with him.

“Who else would I be looking for, at a Brooklyn farmer’s market on a beautiful Saturday?” Clint leaned over, kissing Bucky gently before sitting back down. “You get the stuff for dinner?”

Bucky held up his canvas bag with a nod, giving it a little shake. “Rooftop grilling for two, the utmost of romance. How’d you do on dessert?”

Clint grinned crookedly, holding his arms out. “Here I am.”

They both laughed and Bucky slid his chair a little closer, kissing him again. They were still figuring this out, if they could have something, if they _wanted_ to have something, but so far… So far things had been good. Bucky had transferred to the DHS office job after he was cleared from the hospital, and Clint was putting his computer skills to work on web design rather than tech support. It left them with regular amounts of time to spend together.

Circumstances had changed, positions had changed, and he still felt a flutter in his chest the second before Bucky’s lips touched his. Clint figured that was as close to good as he was going to get.

“I baked a cake,” he whispered against Bucky’s lips, pecking another kiss after. “It’s at my place, so we might have to go back there after dinner.”

“Might?”

“Well…” He sat back, licked his lips and didn’t miss the way Bucky’s eyes followed his tongue. “We could always have dessert first.”

The sun was shining over Brooklyn, he had his dog, he had his boyfriend, and no one was trying to kill him.

Clint Barton was a simple man with simple needs, and he couldn’t ask for much more than what he had here and now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 thank you for reading!
> 
> In case you missed it, I've also been posting some one shot winterhawk smut pieces this month. I'm hoping to put up a new one every Sunday in November (or rather, every Sinday in Nutvember) so feel free to check them out!
> 
> I wanted to be ready to roll into my next long fic, but life started happening and the inspiration dried up. Spoilers, the next long fic is another modern AU and involves [redacted].
> 
> Final note, I'm here to once again beg you to read [Mean Grease: The High School Musical](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176471). It's cute and silly and I worked really hard on it, so please do check it out! This week's chapter put the story over 50k words, making it officially my first novel-length single story.


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